LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


I 


Class 


PO  UTR  V 


LYRICAL,   NARRATIVE,   AND    SATIRICAL 


OF 


T  TT  E    C  1  V  I  L    W  A 


SELECTED   AND   EDITED 


BY  RICHARD    GRANT   WHITE 


NEW   YORK 

THE    AMERICAN    NEWS    COMPANY 
111)  &  121  NASSAU  STKEEX 
1866 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMPANY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


PKEFACE. 


JT  is  generally  true  that  great  events  do  not 
inspire  great  poems.  Upon  the  Reformation, 
the  Cromwellian  Rebellion,  the  French  Rev 
olution,  our  own  War  of  Independence,  nothing  im 
portant  and  enduring  has  been  written  in  verse.  Bar 
low's  "  Columbiad  "  is  a  fair  type  of  the  poetry  pro 
duced  upon  such  subjects.  There  is  little  hope  for  a 
poem,  if  the  poet  trusts  for  the  interest  of  his  work  to 
the  dignity  of  his  theme.  To  the  poet  pertains  the 
power  of  elevating  his  subject ;  nay,  the  very  essence 
of  his  poetry  is  in  that  elevation,  —  in  his  adding  him 
self  to  his  subject  The  choice  of  a  great  event  as 
the  theme  for  a  poem  is  unwise,  because  the  poet  can- 
hardly  fail  to  fall  short  of  the  mental  elevation  pro 
duced  by  the  relation  of  such  an  event  in  simple  prose. 
He  will  find  himself  compelled  to  assume  the  position 
of  a  decorator  rather  than  that  of  a_creatox.;  and  his 
decorations  will  only  call  attention  to  their  littleness 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  reality  to  which  they  have 
been  appended.  The  "  Iliad,"  and  the  "  Gerusalemme 
Liberata,"  are  not  exceptions  to  this  rule ;  and  the 
''Paradise  Lost"  may  be  one  only  in  seeming.  It 


224130 


IV  PREFACE. 

was  no  mere  poetical  formula,  that  prayer  of  Milton's 
that  he  might  have  strength  to  rise  to  the  height  of 
bis  great  argument;  and  with  all  the  beauty  and  no 
bility  of  thought  and  sustained  power  in  his  chief 
epic,  another  generation  must  pass  ere  it  can  be  safely 
said  that  the  fame  which  he  owes  to  the  criticism  of 
the  Queen  Anne  school  of  literature  will  endure 
in  its  present  proportions,  and  that  he  did  indeed 
soar  high  enough  to  be  above  his  theme.  And  unless 
he  did  so,  the  chief  merit  of  his  poem  is  not  in  its 
poetry,  which  is  his,  but  in  the  facts  narrated  in  it, 
which  he  derived  from  others.  "  The  Iliad  "  is  a 
marked  instance  of  the  power  of  a  poet's  genius  to 
aggrandize  the  subject  of  his  song.  The  bloody  strife 
between  the  chiefs  of  a  few  petty  semi-barbarous 
tribes  about  a  wanton  woman  have  been  made  by 
the  genius  of  Homer  to  assume  such  dignity  and  pro 
portion  that  for  centuries  they  have  filled  the  minds 
of  men  as  the  ideal  of  great  and  martial  enterprise  ; 
and  two  little  streams  that  would  hardly  more  than 
turn  a  village  mill,  and  which  are  associated  with  no 
event  or  function  so  important  to  mankind,  (unlike 
the  Jordan  or  the  Rubicon,  for  instance,)  have  a  place 
in  the  world's  memory  unequalled  by  that  of  rivers 
that  have  fertilized  half  a  continent,  and  have  been 
for  centuries  the  highways  of  commerce  and  the  chan 
nels  of  civilization. 

But  although  great  poems  are  rarely  inspired  by 
great  events,  in  modern  days  the  feelings  of  civilized 


PREFACE.  v 

people  in  periods  of  national  peril  or  great  political 
excitement  have  generally  found  expression  in  verse, 
which  has  not  only  an  historical  value  as  a  contempo 
rary  record,  but  a  peculiar  and  sometimes  a  very  high 
value  as  poetical  literature.  The  ballads  and  lyrical 
pieces  that  were  written  during  the  civil  wars  of  our 
forefathers  in  England,  during  the  Scotch  civil  wars, 
the  British  Revolution  of  1G88,  in  France  during 
the  war  of  the  Fronde,  and  during  the  great  Revo 
lution  and  its  successors,  not  only  tell  us  of  the  act 
ors  in  those  scenes,  what  they  did,  and  how  their 
souls  were  stirred  by  the  events  wrhich  passed  before 
them,  but  they  have  an  intrinsic  poetical  charm  which 
pertains  to  every  elevated  and  skilful  rhythmical  ex 
pression  of  human  experience  or  emotion.  The  strug 
gle  which  has  just  decided  that  the  Anglo-American 
commonwealths  lying  between  the  Great  Lakes  arid  -" 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico  form  one  republic  and  not  thirty- 
six,  or  even  two,  and  which,  beginning  in  a  deter 
mination  on  one  side  that  slavery  should  be,  and  on 
the  other  that  it  should  not  be  propagated,  ended  in 
the  utter  demolition  of  the  original  bone  of  contention, 
has  been  remarkably  fruitful  of  what  in  the  last  gen 
eration  was  well  styled  occasional  poetry.  It  was 
inevitable  that  it  should  be  so,  from  the  education  of 
the  people  who  were  the  actors  in  the  strife,  from 
their  general  ability,  not  only  to  write  and  read,  but 
to  express  themselves  with  readiness,  and  from  their 
acquaintance  with  the  rich  poetical  literature  of  their 


vi  PREFACE. 

mother  tongue.  And  as  in  no  other  war  that  ever 
was  fought  were  there  among  the  actual  combatants, 
the  rank  and  file,  and  among  their  mothers,  wives, 
and  daughters,  so  many  persons  capable  of  writing, 
so  of  no  other  war  are  there  such  voluminous  con 
temporary  records,  in  verse  as  well  as  in  prose,  writ 
ten  by  those  who  could  say,  with  Virgil's  hero,  that, 
either  in  action  or  in  suffering,  they  were  part  of 
what  they  told. 

From  as  much  of  the  mass  thus  produced  as  I 
could  gather  for  examination,  I  have  selected  for  this 
volume  all  that  appeared  worthy  of  preservation  on 
any  account.  In  the  making  of  this  selection  poet 
ical  merit  has  not  been  the  only  consideration. 
Verses  which  celebrated  at  all  worthily,  or  with  spirit, 
any  important  event  in  the  war,  —  which  expressed 
truthfully  any  mood  of  popular  feeling,  or  which  em 
bodied  any  type  of  character,  whether  enduring  or  the 
transitory  creation  of  the  circumstances  of  the  day,  — 
have  been  deemed  peculiarly  fit  for  this  collection,  al 
though  merely  for  their  intrinsic  excellence  they  might 
not  be  worthy  of  permanent  preservation.  No  poem  of 
conspicuous  worth  elicited  by  the  war  will  be  found 
lacking  in  these  pages  ;  but  some  of  moderate  merit 
have  been  omitted  in  favor  of  others  of  no  greater  po 
etical  value,  because  from  their  subject,  or  from  their 
embodiment  of  character  or  revelation  of  feeling,  the 
latter  presented  claims  not  found  in  the  former.  Nor 
have  I  been  at  all  fastidious  as  to  the  quarter  in  which 


PREFACE.  vii 

I  looked  for  this  poetry,  or  as  to  the  subjects  of  the 
verses.  In  the  formation  of  a  volume  which  aims  to  be 
a  poetical  reflex  of  the  mind  of  a  whole  people  under 
the  excitement  of  a  war  lasting  four  years,  fastidious 
ness  in  these  respects  would  be  much  out  of  place. 
I  have  looked  through  the  street  ballads  as  well  as  the 
monthly  magazines,  and  have  taken  as  readily  what 
was  printed  upon  a  broadside,  or  written  for  negro 
minstrels,  as  what  came  from  Bryant,  Longfellow, 
Lowell,  or  Boker.  Consequently  there  may  be  found 
among  these  poems  pieces  which  some  readers  will 
pronounce  decidedly  vulgar,  and  others  which  will  be 
thought  objectionable  by  other  readers  because  of  the 
views  they  express  on  public  affairs,  or  of  their  esti 
mates  of  public  characters.  As  to  the  question  of  vul 
garity,  that  I  shall  leave  to  be  settled  by  the  genteel 
people  who  may  be  offended  ;  as  to  the  other  point,  I 
will  only  say  that  this  collection  would  not  have  been 
worthy  of  the  attention  which  I  hope,  it  may  receive, 
if  it  did  not  contain  somewhat  of  which  I  cannot  ap 
prove  myself.  For  example,  I  have  read  all  that  I 
could  discover  of  the  war-poetry  written  by  the  con 
federated  enemies  of  my  government,  and  have  pre 
served  here  all  that  in  the  most  catholic  spirit  I 
deemed  of  any  intrinsic  merit  or  incidental  interest. 
It  was  my  original  purpose  to  embody  this  with  the 
substance  of  the  volume,  giving  each  piece  its  place 
in  the  order  of  time ;  but  finding  so  little  of  this 
poetry  which  possessed  any  kind  of  interest,  instead 


viii  PREFACE. 

of  scattering  it  sparsely  through  the  collection,  I  have 
put  it  by  itself  in  an  appendix.  The  secessionists 
fought  much  better  than  they  wrote  ;  and  it  is  worthy 
of  remark  that  the  best  poem  on  their  side,  "  The 
Confederate  Flag,"  was  published  in  a  New  York 
newspaper,  "  The  Freeman's,  Journal."  When  they 
next  fight,  —  may  it  be  long  ere  then,  and  may  we  stand 
together !  —  they  will  fight  as  well,  and  write  better, 
and  in  a  better  cause.  Aside,  moreover,  from  the  sen 
timent  which  they  express  or  their  poetical  merits, 
there  is  undoubtedly  a  quality  in  certain  songs  which 
insures  popularity,  and  which  seems  to  be  a  certain 
rhythm,  or  lilt,  which  seizes  upon  the  memory  and 
bewitches  without  always  pleasing  the  ear ;  and  I 
have  not  passed  over  compositions  of  which  this  was 
the  only  merit.  It  may  be  that  some  people  com 
placently  thought,  as  they  listened  to  that  nonsensical 
farrago,  "  Old  John  Brown,"  that  here  was  proof  that 
"  the  great  popular  heart  of  this  country  beat  in 
unison  the  impulses  of  humanity  toward  universal 
freedom."  But  the  truth  was  that  the  alternate  jig 
and  swing  of  the  air  caused  it  to  stick  in  the  unedu 
cated  ear  as  burrs  stick  to  a  blackberry  girl.  Evi 
dence  of  this  appears  in  the  fact  that  the  song,  already 
unheard  and  passing  rapidly  into  oblivion  with  us,  is 
now  just  as  popular  in  London  as  it  ever  was  here. 
The  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette  "  of  October  14th,  1865,  tells 
us  that  "  the  street  boys  of  London,"  not,  it  may  perhaps 
be  safely  assumed,  from  views  of  broad  philanthropy 


PREFACE.  ix 

have  decided  in  its  favor  against  "  My  Maryland,"  and 
"  The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag."  The  "  Gazette  "  goes  on  to 
say  that  "  the  great  Federal  war-song  [meaning  '  Old 
"John  Brown']  is  the  favorite  of  the  people,  —  of 
"  those  who  sing  in  the  highways.  The  somewhat 
"  lugubrious  refrain  —  '  Glory,  glory,  hallelujah  ! '  — 
"  has  excited  their  admiration  to  a  wonderful  degree, 
"and  almost  threatens  to  extinguish  that  hard-worked, 
"exquisite  eifort  of  modern  minstrelsy,  — '  Slap  Bang.' 
"  The  slight  flavor  of  blasphemy  which  '  Old  John 
"  Brown '  contains  does  not  apparently  give  any  offence 
"  to  the  popular  appetite,  —  rather  the  contrary  effect 
"  is  observable."  When  neither  patriotic  nor  party 
feeling  is  involved,  and  the  question  is  between  Glory 
Hallelujah !  and  Slap  Bang  !  and  the  doxology  carries 
the  day,  we  need  be  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  reason  for 
the  preference. 

The  poetry  elicited  by  any  civil  war  is  found  either 
to  relate  the  events  of  the  war  or  the  acts  of  person 
ages  more  or  less  distinguished  in  it,  and  so  to  be  in 
the  nature  of  the  ballad,  —  to  describe  or  celebrate 
some  character  or  type  individual  brought  by  the  war 
into  prominence,  —  to  express  the  feelings  of  the  par 
tisans,  —  or  to  attack  one  side  or  the  other  with  ridi 
cule  and  satire.  Our  civil  war  did  not  fail  to  produce 
poetical  compositions  having  all  these  motives,  although 
it  was  inevitable  that  in  our  case,  as  in  others,  many 
of  them  partook  in  such  a  marked  degree  of  the 
characteristics  of  two  classes  that  they  could  not  with 


X  PREFACE. 

propriety  be  assigned  to  either.  Such  is  the  first 
piece  in  this  volume,  "  Brother  Jonathan's  Lament 
for  Sister  Caroline,"  in  which  Dr.  Holmes  gave  ex 
pression  to  the  feeling  throughout  the  North  on  the 
passage  of  the  so-called  secession  ordinance  by  South 
Carolina,  and  with  certain  foreknowledge  told,  not 
only  the  consequences  of  that  act  to  our  "  wayward 
sister,"  but  the  spirit  in  which  she  would  be  received 
in  her  time  of  suffering  and  her  sorrow,  if  riot  her  re 
pentance,  —  such  are  "  The  Flag,"  by  Mr.  Woodman, 
"  The  Present  Crisis,"  by  Mr.  Lowell,  and  "  On  the 
Hill  before  Centreville,"  which  not  only  tells  vividly 
the  story  of  the  battle  of  Bull  Run,  but  puts  in  living 
lines  the  shame  and  the  anguish  which  overwhelmed 
us  upon  hearing  of  the  senseless  panic  which  closed 
that  battle  ;  although  now,  understanding  the  vicissi 
tudes  of  that  day  and  knowing  the  fortunes  of  war 
better,  we  can  hold  up  our  heads  while  we  talk  of  the 
behavior  of  our  raw,  peacefully-bred  soldiers,  even  on 
that  disastrous  occasion.  Such  also  is  Mr.  S  ted  man's 
"  Wanted  —  A  Man,"  which  embodies  the  mingled 
sickness  of  heart  and  suppressed  wrath  which,  justly 
or  unjustly,  filled  people's  souls  at  the  events  of  the 
battle  summer  of  1862.  The  poems  by  Mr.  Long 
fellow  and  Mr.  Boker  upon  the  Unflinching  contest 
of  the  Cumberland  with  her  invulnerable  assailant, 
and  Lieutenant  Brownell's  "  River  Fight,"  and  "  Bay 
Fight,"  Mr.  Whittier's  "  Barbara  Fritchie,"  with  many 
others  in  the  collection,  are  almost  purely  narrative  in 


PREFACE.  xi 

character,  and  may  be  regarded  as  ballads.  In  some 
of  them  the  simplicity  of  the  narration  and  the  men 
tion  of  the  names  of  the  actors  give  great  vitality  to 
the  composition.  This  is  particularly  the  case  with 
"  Barbara  Fritchie,"  which  is  interesting  no  less  for  its 
portrait  of  Stonewall  Jackson  than  for  its  celebration 
of  its  heroine,  and  its  description  of  the  stirring  inci 
dent  to  which,  as  it  has  been  told  by  Mr.  Whit  tier, 
she  will  owe  an  enduring  fame.  The  rebel  "  Stone 
wall  Jackson's  Way  "  is  a  very  spirited,  and,  it  would 
seem,  faithful  piece  of  figure-painting  somewhat  of  the 
same  kind.  And  what  an  air  of  truth,  and  a  pres 
ence  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  is  given  to  Mr.  Brownell's 
descriptions  by  his  telling,  with  their  deeds,  the  names 
of  Admiral  Farragut's  subordinates,  —  Craven  and 
Drayton,  Bell  and  Bailey,  Kimberly,  Marchand,  and 
Strong,  and  Jouett,  the  mate  of  the  flag-ship.  In  Mr. 
Bayard  Taylor's  "  Chicago  Surrender,"  written  imme 
diately  upon  the  adjournment  of  the  Chicago  Conven 
tion,  we  have  a  reflex  of  the  feeling  which  the  pro 
ceedings  of  that  assembly  excited  throughout  the  Free 
States ;  a  feeling  which,  enduring  in  spite  of  all  the 
claims  of  party  interests,  and  the  effect  of  party  dis 
cipline,  manifested  itself  in  a  manner  unprecedented 
in  the  election  which  this  convention  assembled  to 
carry.  Therefore  the  presence  of  that  poem  in  such 
a  collection  is  insured  in  spite  of  a  palpable  plagia 
rism  in  the  first  stanza  from  Mr.  Dickens,  speaking  in 
the  person  of  his  own  creature,  Elijah  Pogram  ;  —  a 


xii  PREFACE. 

slip  the  more  surprising,  even  in  this  fugitive  compo 
sition,  as  Mr.  Taylor  shows  us  his  best  points,  sim 
plicity  and  manliness  of  style,  when  he  is  writing 
verse.  In  such  pieces  as  Lieutenant  De  Forest's 
"  In  Louisiana, "  we  get  clear  glimpses  of  the  country 
over  which  this  great  struggle  raged  for  four  long 
years  ;  and  appearing  in  Mr.  Whittier's  "  At  Port 
Royal,"  and  Mrs.  Gray's  "  Fisherman  of  Beaufort," 
and  one  or  two  other  pieces  of  lighter  character,  the 
negro,  "  causa  teterrima  hiijus  belli"  occupies  his 
subordinate,  though  important  place,  upon  the  scene 
which  his  inherited  captivity  has  deluged  witli  frater 
nal  blood. 

Of  the  pictures  of  life  and  character  in  these  poems 
a  striking  specimen  is  "  The  Brier- Wood  Pipe,"  in 
which  that  singular  worthy,  the  New  York  volunteer 
fireman,  appears  drawn  to  the  life.  This  sketch  is 
the  more  valuable  because  the  subject  of  it  has  now 
vanished  into  the  past  ;  his  life  having  ended  with, 
although  not  because  of,  the  war,  his  behavior  in  which, 
in  his  collective  capacity,  did  not  justify  all  the  expec 
tations  of  his  friends.  Other  compositions  of  this  kind 
are  "  Uncle  Sam,"  and  "  The  Bounty  Jumper,"  both 
of  which,  even  if  the  "  Brier- Wood  Pipe  "  escapes, 
will  be  voted  exceedingly  low  by  certain  people. 

It  would  have  been  strange,  indeed,  if  the  position 
taken  by  the  British  Government  and  the  bulk  of  the 
British  governing  classes  toward  our  republic,  as  soon 
as  it  seemed  to  them  that  there  was  a  fair  chance,  if 


PREFACE.  xiii 

the  rebellion  were  nursed,  that  we  might  be  destroyed,* 
being,  as  it  was,  the  mere  supplement  of  two  defeated 
attempts  at  oppression,  and  sixty  years  of  continued 
insult,  had  not  produced  a  feeling  which  sought  ex 
pression  in  satire  and  invective.  And  here  again  Mr. 
Whittier  and  Mr.  Lowell  speak  for  their  countrymen 
just  as  we  would  have  them  speak.  The  spirit  which 
produced  "  Punch's  Run  from  Manassas  Junction  " 
meets  its  proper  rebuke  in  the  address  "  To  English 
men,"  and  gets  a  Roland  for  its  Oliver  in  Mr.  Lowell's 
"  Jonathan  to  John."  But  the  "  New  Song  to  an  Old 
Tune  "  tells  the  whole  truth  upon  this  subject.  Our 
British  cousins  who  continually  speak  as  if  the  feeling 
which  their  conduct  has  awakened  in  this  country 

*  This  is  no  supposition  based  upon  a  mere  concurrence  of 
events  which  might  have  been  fortuitous.  Halt' this  volume  might 
be  tilled  with  extracts  from  British  newspapers,  vituperating  "  the 
slaveholders  "  without  measure,  when  it  was  thought  that  their 
rebellion  was  only  strong  enough  to  derange  trade  and  hinder  the 
export  of  cotton,  and  the  pages  of  Punch  (Britannia's  rose-tinted 
mirror)  will  be  found  lull  at  this  period  of  savage  ridicule  of  the 
secessionists.  But  when  it  appeared  that  there  really  was  a  chance 
for  the  destruction  of  the  great  republic,  how  sudden  and  how 
shameless  was  the  change  !  One  candid  Briton,  who  has  since  seen 
the  error  of  his  ways,  said  to  me,  frankly.  "  There  's  no  use  lying 
about  it  and  denying  that  we  all  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  at  the 
possible  destruction  of  a  successful  rebel  against  the  British  govern 
ment,  and  a  great  commercial  and  manufacturing  rival."  Arid  Mr. 
Rosetti,  a  British  painter  and  writer  of  repute,  writing  in  the  At 
lantic  magazine  upon  British  feeling  in  regard  to  our  war,  says: 
"  The  first  of  the  four  motives  in  question  .  .  .  and  by  far  the  most 
powerful  of  all:  The  English  as  a  nation  dislike  the  Americans  as 
a  nation.  .  .  .  The  second  is  a  natural,  though  assuredly  not  a 
laudable  feeling,  —  the  residual  soreness  left 'by  our  defeat  in  the 
old  American  War  of  Independence." 


xiv  PREFACE. 

were  a  new  one,  or  at  least  had  its  source  in  the 
events  of  the  present  day,  and  as  if  what  they  call 
the  Trent  outrage  were  without  a  precedent,  and  also 
as  if  we  were  always  eager  for  a  quarrel  with  them, 
would  do  well  to  read  the  unpretending  production 
of  this  anonymous  parodist,  and  then  take  the  little 
trouble  that  will  be  needful  to  discover,  if  they  do  not 
know  already,  the  facts  about  this  matter. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  these  little  poems 
are  those  which  express  the  feelings  and  emotions  of 
the  actors  and  sufferers  in  the  struggle,  and  portray 
the  various  phases  of  our  social  and  political  life 
during  those  four  years  of  eventful  memory.  The 
variety  of  these  is  very  great,  and  their  general  faith 
fulness  to  fact  very  noteworthy.  From  Mr.  Cutler's 
"  Lullaby,"  so  simple,  so  tender,  and  so  true,  that  it 
seems  hardly  more  than  a  literal  record  of  what  must 
have  been  sung  in  twilight  hours  by  thousands  of  sad- 
hearted  women  in  farmsteads  and  cities  the  country 
over,  to  Lieutenant  Realf's  "  lo  Triumphe  ! "  in 
which  the  whole  nation's  faith  and  hope,  repentance 
and  rejoicing,  struggle  into  words  that,  in  their  alternate 
pause  and  rush,  reflect  the  turbulence  of  the  time,  — 
from  the  cry,  in  "  The  Potomac,  1861,"  of  the  girl 
bereaved  of  her  lover,  to  the  "  Horatian  Ode,"  in 
which  Mr.  Stoddard  tells,  in  prolonged  but  well-sus 
tained  quatrains,  the  style  of  which  smacks  rather  of 
England  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  seventeenth  cen 
tury  than  of  Rome  in  the  first,  a  people's  sober,  deco- 


PREFACE.  XV 

rous  grief  at  the  violent  death  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 
the  gradation  is  full  and  perfect.  No  man,  no  woman, 
lacks  a  representative  voice,  and  it  would  seem  that 
no  passing  emotion,  more  than  any  abiding  sentiment, 
fails  of  expression.  How  unexaggerated  in  all  their 
strength  most  of  these  poems  now  are  seen  to  be  by 
us !  The  writers  seem  to  have  found  in  their  imagi 
nations  the  real  facts,  and  in  their  fancies  the  words 
that  most  truthfully  expressed  them.  Even  the  ter 
rible  threat  which  closes  General  Lander's  "  Rhode 
Island  to  the  South,"  and  which  might  have  been  not 
without  reason  looked  upon  by  a  mere  spectator  of  the 
struggle  as  a  poetical  hyperbole  pushed  to  the  verge 
of  extravagance,  proved  to  be  hardly  more  than  a 
literal  announcement  of  what  was  to  happen.  And 
yet,  striking  as  are  such  utterances  (and  there  are 
others  like  this)  of  a  determination  to  maintain  the 
republic  at  whatever  cost  of  life,  there  is  throughout 
these  compositions  a  notable  absence  of  sanguinary  or 
revengeful  feeling,  or  even  of  hatred,  —  a  negative 
trait  rendered  the  more  remarkable  by  the  single 
manifestation  of  that  feeling  among  the  many  loyal 
pieces,  and  its  frequent  recurrence  among  the  few 
written  by  rebel  pens.  Coming  under  this  class,  and 
yet  having  characteristic  traits  of  their  own,  are  the 
poems  which  paint  the  home  life  and  the  daily  trials 
of  the  people  that  furnished  the  volunteer  soldiers 
who  did  the  fighting  of  this  war.  Such  are  "  Driv 
ing  Home  the  Cows,"  "  A  Woman's  Waiting,"  "  The 


xvi  PREFACE. 

Song  of  the  Camps,"  "  After  All,"  and  "  The  Heart 
of  the  War."  No  painted  picture,  no  long-drawn  de 
scription,  could  give  a  more  faithful  and  vivid  por 
traiture  of  rural  life  in  the  Free  States  during  the 
war  than  these  compositions,  and  some  others  like 
them,  scattered  through  this  volume,  —  most  of  them 
anonymous,  and  written  for  the  columns  of  a  news 
paper  oi1  a  magazine  by  people  who  lived  among  the 
scenes  which  they  describe.  "  Driving  Home  the 
Cows  "  might  be  called  as  faithful  as  a  photograph, 
were  it  not  that  in  addition  to  its  faithfulness  it  tells 
a  tale  that  can  only  be  told  by  human  lips,  and  em 
bodies  a  feeling  that  will  only  take  form  under  the 
touch  of  human  hands.  It  is  noteworthy  that  the 
rebel  poetry  furnishes  no  corresponding  pictures  of 
life  and  character  in  whatever  class.  I  have  looked 
for  them  in  vain. 

Whether  we  have  reason  to  be  proud  or  ashamed 
of  the  poetry  produced  by  our  civil  war,  —  most  of  it 
written  by  unpractised  hands, —  it  will  be  for  each  reader 
to  decide  for  himself  after  perusal  of  this  volume  ;  but 
this  I  may  venture  to  say  from  knowledge,  that  these 
poems  being  arranged  in  the  order  of  time,  the  book 
tells  the  story  of  the  war  like  a  rhymed  chronicle. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  the  authors  of  many  of  the 
following  poems  for  permission  that  they  should  ap 
pear  in  these  pages.  Some  are  printed  without  such 
permission,  because  I  knew  not  where  or  how  to 
address  their  authors,  and  others  because  they  had 


PREFACE.  xvii 

been  already  so  often  quoted  as  to  be  almost  common 
property.  My  acknowledgments  are  also  due  to  the 
proprietors  of"  Harpers'  Magazine,"  "  Harpers'  Weekly 
Journal,"  and  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly  "  magazine,  for 
permission  to  make  selections  from  their  pages  ;  and 
to  those  useful  collections,  Mr.  Frank  Moore's  "  Re 
bellion  Record,"  and  Littell's  "  Living  Age,"  I  am 
also  indebted.  Many  of  the  compositions  —  of  those 
owned  by  their  authors  as  well  as  of  those  which 
have  remained  anonymous  —  I  have  been  unable  to 
trace  to  papers  in  which  they  first  appeared. 

R.  G.  W. 


CONTENTS. 


Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Car-  PA(IE 

oline Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 1 

A  Psalm  of  the  Union Anonymous 2 

God  for  our  Native  Land G.  W.  Bethune,  D.  D 4 

The  Flag Horatio  Woodman 5 

Apocalypse Clarence  Hutler 7 

The  Massachusetts  Line Robert  Lowell 9 

Our  Country' 's  Call William  Cullen  Bryant 11 

United  States  National  Anthem William  Ross  Wallace 13 

The  Seventh Fitzjames  O'Brien 14 

South  Carolina  Gentleman Anonymous 17 

Army  Hymn Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 19 

The  Stars  and  Stripes James  T.  Fields 20 

The  Present  Crisis James  Russell  Lowell 20 

The  Two  Furrows C.  II.  Webb 23 

Out  in  the  Cold Lucy  Lareom 25 

Ho .'  Sons  of  the  Puritan Anonymous 27 

The  Universal  Cotton  Gin Au.  of  the  "  Cotton  States  "  30 

Upon  the  Hill  before  Centre  ville George  H.  Boker 33 

The  Run  from  Manasses  Junction Anonymous 43 

The  Brier-  Wood  Pipe Charles  Dawson  Shanly 46 

Jonathan  to  John James  Russell  Lowell 49 

A  New  Song  to  an  Old  Tune    Anonymous  52 

To  Englishmen John  Grcenleaf  WUittier  . .  53 

The  '•'•London  Times'1'1  on  American  Affairs  Anonymous 55 

God  Save  John  Bull R.  G.  W 57 

The  Potomac.  1861 Anonymous 58 

"  E/»>  Feste  Burg  Tst  Unser  Gott »    ....  John  G.  Whittier 60 

Jeff.  Davis Sigma G2 

Yankee  Pride Brig. -General  Lander 64 

Pacific  Macaronics Anonymous 65 

John  Brown's  Song Anonymous (56 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe 68 

The  Nation's  Hymn Anonymous 69 


xx  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

"  E  Pluribus  Unum  " Rev.  John  Pierpont 71 

United  States  National  Hymn Jonathan  72 

Union R.  G.  W 75 

Overtures  from  Richmond FrancLs  James  Child 76 

All  ioe  ask  is  to  be  Let  Alone II.  II.  Brownell 79 

Tardy  Geor%  P. Anon  vmo  us 81 

The  Cumberland Henry  W '.  Longfellow 83 

On  Board  the  Cumberland George  II.  Boker 84 

Marching  Along William  B.  Bradbury 'JO 

A  Yankee  Soldier's  Song Anonymous 91 

The  Irish  Picket Barney 93 

"Words  that  can  be  sung  to  the  '*  Hallelu 
jah  Chorus'1'1 II.  If.  Brownell 96 

Lul'aby Jefferson  Cutler 97 

The  River  Fight H.  H.  Brownell 98 

The  Ballad  of  the  Crescent  City Anonymous 108 

New  Orleans  won  back Robert  Lowell 112 

The  Varuna George  II.  Boker 114 

The  Ntw  Ballad  of  Lord  Lovell Anonymous 115 

Gineral  Butler , Charity  Grimes 117 

Rhode  Island  to  the.  South Gen .  F.  VV.  Lander 118 

The  Picket  Guard Anonymous 119 

The  March  of  the  Regiment II.  H.  Brownell 121 

The  Loyal  Democrat A.  J.  II.  Duganne 125 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More Anonymous 127 

The  Day  of  God George  S.  Burleigh 128 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1832 John  G.  Whittier 130 

The  Cripple  at  the  Gate Anonymous 132 

Wanted  —  A  Man Edmund  C.  Stcdman 134 

Fredericksburgh \V.F.\V 13n 

My  Maryland Anonymous 138 

Boston  Hymn Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 139 

Treason's  Last  Device Edmund  C.  Stedman 142 

Larry's  Return  from  the  War Will  S.  Hays 144 

At  Port  Royal John  Greenleaf  Whittier  . .  146 

Left  on  the  Battle  Field Sarah  T.  Bolton 149 

In  Louisiana J-  W.  De  Forest 151 

Song  of  New  England  Spring  Birds Anonymous  . .' 153 

The  Wood  of  Chancellorsville Anonymous 155 

Song  of  the  Copperhead Anonymous 157 

At  Gettysburg Anonymous 158 

How  are  you.  General  Lee Anonymous 160 

Hymn  for  it/i  of  July,  1863 George  H.  Boker 161 

Left  on  the  Battle  Field Howard  Glyndon 163 


CONTENTS.  xxi 

PAGE 

Lay  of  the  Modern  "  Konservativs  " Charity  Grimes 164 

Says  Private  Maguire T.  B.  Aldrich 166 

Spring  at  tke  Capital Anonymous 167 

A  Woman's  Waiting Anonymous 169 

Barbara  Fritckie John  Greenleaf  \Vhittier. . .  171 

Thanksgiving  Railroad  Ballad E  Plurihus  Ununi  174 

The  Dead  Drummer  Boy Anonymous 176 

The  Sentinel  on  Morris  Island Anonymous 177 

"  Sho-ddy  " Anonymous 179 

Lint Anonymous 180 

Peace  Democracy Charity  Grimes 182 

The  Latest  War  News Anonymous 183 

Cavalry  Charge Edmund  C.  Stedman 185 

The  Fisherman  of  Beaufort Frances  D.  Gage 186 

Seward A.  D.  F.  Randolph 187 

The  Song  of  the.  Camps J .  R.  M 188 

Soldiers'  Talk Charles  G.  Halpin 190 

Per  Tenebras  Lumina Mrs.  Whitney 192 

The  Confederate  Primer Anonymous 193 

An  Idyl II.  Bedlow 194 

The  Old  Sergeant Anonymous 198 

In  the  Sepulchre Anonymous 204 

Uncle  Sam Anonymous 207 

When  Johnny  comes  marching  Home Anonymous 208 

Sonnet George  II.  Boker 209 

Sonnet George  II.  Boker 210 

The  Brave  at  Home Thomas  Buchanan  Read . . .  210 

When  this  Cruel  War  is  over Anonymous 211 

April  20,  1864    Charles  G.  Halpin 213 

Grant George  II.  Boker 214 

The  Bounty- Jumper J .  Cross  Casten 215 

Song  of  Ktlpatrick'ls  Troopers Anonymous 217 

The  Song  of  Grants  Soldiers Anonymous 218 

Driving  home  the  cows Anonymous 220 

On  Picket  Duty Anonymous 222 

The  Heart  of  the  War Anonymous 225 

The  Drummer  Boy^s  Burial Anonymous 228 

The  Bay  Fight II.   H.  Brownell 232 

The  C/i icago  Surrender Bayard  Taylor 249 

Sheridan's  Ride T.  Buchanan  Rend 251 

After  All William  Winter 253 

The,  Year  of  Jubilee Anonymous 254 

Abolition  of  Slavery Anonymous 255 

Brother  Jonathan  and  Taxes Anonymous 257 


xxii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Little  Jeu  D'Esprit Anonymous 258 

A  Hair-dressed 's  Story A.  M.  W 259 

Sherman's  March, A  Soldier 2^1 

The  Craven Alfred  Andhison 262 

The  Hour  of  Northern  Victory Fanny  Kemble 263 

Cotton  and  Corn Anonymous 265 

The  Frcedman's  Song Anonymous 265 

Abraham  Lincoln Edmund  C.  Stedman 267 

Abraham  Lincoln William  Cullen  Bryant 268 

Reunion John  Nicol 268 

Abraham  Lincoln Anonymous 270 

Abraham  Lincoln Alice  Carey 273 

In  State Anonymous 274 

An  Horatian  Ode Richard  Henry  Stoddart ...  275 

South  Carolina,  1865 Anonymous 282 

lo  Triumphe Richard  Realf 283 


APPENDIX. 

Farewell  to  Brother  Jonathan Caroline 289 

Call  all!  Call  all Georgia 291 

Maryland James  R.  Randall 292 

The  Despot's  Song Ole  Secesh 294 

Rebels Anonymous 296 

Flight  of  the  Doodles Anonymous 297 

Another  Yankee  Doodle Anonymous 299 

Justice  our  Panoply De  G 301 

The  Stars  and  Bars A.  J.  Requier 302 

The  Irish  Battalion Anonymous 304 

Bombardment  of  Vicksburg Anonymous 306 

A  Southern  Scene Anonymous 308 

Beyond  the  Potomac Paul  II.  Hayne 310 

The  Old  Rifleman Frank  Ticknor 312 

Southrons Anonymous 314 

The  Guerillas Anonymous 315 

There  's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  yet James  R.  Randall 318 

Epigram ^ Anonymous 319 

Thinking  of  the  Soldiers Anonymous 320 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way Anonymous 321 

Song  for  the  Irish  Brigade Shamrock 323 

The  Confederate  Flag Anonymous 325 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SISTER 
CAROLINE.* 

BY    OLIVER   WENDELL.   HOLMES. 

SHE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and  pride, — 
Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side  ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's  glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe  ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have  been  one,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame  ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch  ; 
But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not  mean  much." 
We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent  threat ; 
But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "  Forgive  and  forget ! " 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?      Have  its  altars  grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  foretold  ? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged  with  their  spoil, 
Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 

*  Written  upon  the  announcement  of  the  passage  of  the  "  Ordi 
nance  of  Secession,"  on  the  20th  of  December,  1860,  by  the  Con 
vention  of  South  Carolina,  the  first  State  which  attempted  to  secede. 


2  A  PSALM   OF  THE    UNION. 

Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop  from  their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the  waves : 

In  vain  is  the  strife !      When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of  snow 
Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky : 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God  cuts  the  die ! 
Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never  be  won ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  lidit  are  the  hope  of  the  world  ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof,  — 

Run  wild  in  the  sunshine,  away  from  our  roof; 

But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet  have  grown  sore, 

Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door ! 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


A  PSALM  OF  THE  UNION. 

i. 
GOD  of  the  Free  !  upon  thy  breath 

Our  flag  is  for  the  Right  unrolled  ; 
Still  broad  and  brave  as  when  its  stars 

First  crowned  the  hallowed  time  of  old  : 
For  Honor  still  its  folds  shall  fly, 

For  Duty  still  their  glories  burn, 


A  PSALM   OF  THE   UNION. 

Where  Truth,  Religion,  Freedom  guard 
The  patriot's  sword  and  martyr's  urn. 
Then  shout  beside  thine  oak,  O  North  ! 

O  South  !  wave  answer  with  thy  palm ; 
And  in  our  Union's  heritage 

Together  lift  the  Nation's  psalm  ! 

ii. 

How  glorious  is  our  mission  here  ! 

Heirs  of  a  virgin  world  are  we  ; 
The  chartered  lords  whose  lightnings  tame 

The  rocky  mount  and  roaring  sea : 
We  march,  and  Nature's  giants  own 

The  fetters  of  our  mighty  cars ; 
We  look,  and  lo  !  a  continent 

Is  crouched  beneath  the  Stripes  and  Stars  ! 
Then  shout  beside  thine  oak,  O  North  ! 

O  South  !  wave  answer  with  thy  palm  ; 
And  in  our  Union's  heritage 

Together  lift  the  Nation's  psalm  ! 

in. 
No  tyrant's  impious  step  is  ours ; 

No  lust  of  power  on  nations  rolled : 
Our  Flag  —  for  friends  a  starry  sky, 

For  foes  a  tempest  every  fold  ! 
Oh  !  thus  we  '11  keep  our  nation's  life, 

Nor  fear  the  bolt  by  despots  hurled  : 
The  blood  of  all  the  world  is  here, 

And  they  who  strike  us,  strike  the  world. 
Then  shout  beside  thine  oak,  O  North  ! 

O  South  !  wave  answer  with  thy  palm ; 
And  in  our  Union's  heritage 

Together  lift  the  Nation's  psalm  ! 

IV. 

God  of  the  Free !   our  Nation  bless 
In  its  strong  manhood  as  its  birth ; 


GOD  FOR   OUR  NATIVE  LAND. 

And  make  its  life  a  Star  of  Hope 

For  all  the  struggling  of  tlie  Earth  : 
Thou  gav'st  the  glorious  Past  to  us  ; 

Oh  !  let  our  Present  burn  as  bright, 
And  o'er  the  mighty  Future  cast 

Truth's,  Honor's,  Freedom's  holy  light! 
Then  shout  beside  thine  oak,  O  North ! 

O  South  !  wave  answer  with  thy  palm  ; 
And  in  our  Union's  heritage 

Together  lift  the  Nation's  psalm  ! 

Harpers'  Montldy,  December,  1861. 


GOD  FOR  OUR  NATIVE  LAND. 

BY   REV.    G.    W.    BETHUNE,    D.  1). 

GOD'S  blessing  be  upon 

Our  own,  our  native  land  ! 

The  land  our  fathers  won 

By  the  strong  heart  and  hand, 
The  keen  axe  and  the  brand, 

When  they  felled  the  forest's  pride, 

And  the  tyrant  foe  defied, 

The  free,  the  rich,  the  wide : 
God  for  our  native  land  ! 

Up  with  the  starry  sign, 

The  red  stripes  and  the  white  ! 
Where'er  its  glories  shine, 

In  peace,  or  in  the  fight, 

We  own  its  high  command  ; 
For  the  flag  our  fathers  gave, 
O'er  our  children's  heads  shall  wave, 
And  their  children's  children's  grave  ! 

God  for  our  native  land  ! 


THE  FLAG. 

Who  doth  that  flag  defy, 

We  challenge  as  our  foe  ; 
Who  Avill  not  for  it  die, 

Out  from  us  he  must  go  ! 

So  let  them  understand. 
Who  that  dear  flag  disclaim, 
Which  won  their  fathers'  fame, 
We  brand  \vith  endless  shame! 

God  for  our  native  land  ! 

Our  native  land  !  to  thee, 

In  one  united  vow, 
To  keep  thee  strong  and  free, 

And  glorious  as  now  — 

We  pledge  each  heart  and  hand  ; 
By  the  blood  our  fathers  shed, 
By  the  ashes  of  our  dead, 
By  the  sacred  soil  we  tread  ! 

God  for  our  native  land  ! 


THE  FLAG.* 

BY   HORATIO   WOODMAN. 

WHY  flashed  that  flag  on  Monday  morn 

Across  the  startled  sky  ? 
Why  leapt  the  blood  to  every  cheek, 

The  tears  to  every  eye  ? 

*  Fort  Sumter,  after  being  occupied  by  Major  Anderson  four 
months  with  ninety  men,  was  evacuated  after  bombardment  on 
Saturday,  April  14th,  1861.  On  the  following  Monday,  as  if  by 
one  consent,  the  flag  of  the  Republic  was  raised  throughout  the 
Free  States,  so  that  wherever  the  eye  turned  the  national  colors 
were  in  sight;  and  the  demand  for  flags  was  so  great  that  the 
price  of  bunting  quadrupled  in  a  few  days. 


THE  FLAG. 

The  hero  in  our  four  months'  woe, 

The  symbol  of  our  might, 
Together  sunk  for  one  brief  hour, 

To  rise  forever  bright. 

The  mind  of  Cromwell  claimed  his  own, 

The  blood  of  Naseby  streamed 
Through  hearts  unconscious  of  the  fire 

Till  that  torn  banner  gleamed. 
The  seeds  of  Milton's  lofty  thoughts, 

All  hopeless  of  the  spring, 
Broke  forth  in  joy,  as  through  them  glowed 

The  life  great  poets  sing. 

Old  Greece  was  young,  and  Homer  true, 

And  Dante's  burning  page 
Flamed  in  the  red  along  our  flag, 

And  kindled  holy  rage. 
God's  Gospel  cheered  the  sacred  cause, 

In  stern,  prophetic  strain, 
Which  makes  His  Right  our  covenant, 

His  Psalms  our  deep  refrain. 

Oh,  sad  for  him  whose  light  went  out 

Before  this  glory  came, 
Who  could  not  live  to  feel  his  kin 

To  every  noble  name  ; 
And  sadder  still  to  miss  the  joy 

That  twenty  millions  know, 
In  Human  Nature's  Holiday, 

From  all  that  makes  life  low. 

Boston  Transcript,  April,  18G1. 


APOCALYPSE. 
APOCALYPSE.* 

BY    CLARENCE   BUTLER. 

STRAIGHT  to  his  heart  the  bullet  crushed, 
Down  from  his  breast  the  red  blood  gushed, 
And  o'er  his  face  a  glory  rushed. 

A  sudden  spasm  rent  his  frame, 
And  in  his  ears  there  went  and  came 
A  sound  as  of  devouring  flame. 

Which  in  a  moment  ceased,  and  then 
The  great  light  clasped  his  brows  again, 
So  that  they  shone  like  Stephen's,  when 


Saul  stood  apart  a  little  space, 
And  shook  with  shuddering  awe  to  t 
God's  splendor  settling  o'er  his  face. 


Thus,  like  a  king,  erect  in  pride, 
Raising  his  hands  to  heaven,  he  cried, 
"  All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes  ! "  and  died. 

Died  grandly ;  but,  before  he  fell, 
(O  blessedness  ineffable  !  ) 
Vision  apocalyptical 

Was  granted  to  him,  and  his  eyes, 
All  radiant  with  glad  surprise, 
Looked  forward  through  the  centuries, 

*  After  the  bombardment  and  evacuation  of  Fort  Sumter,  the 
6th  Regiment  of  Massachusetts  militia  was  the  first  that  moved  to 
the  defence  of  Washington.  It  was  attacked  on  the  19th  of  April 
by  a  mob  in  the  streets  of  Baltimore,  and  two  of  its  members 
killed  and  eight  wounded;  one  of  the  former,  Luther  C.  Ladd, 
cheered  the  flag  with  his  dying  breath. 


APOCALYPSE. 

And  saw  the  seeds  that  sages  cast 
In  the  world's  soil  in  cycles  past, 
Spring  up  and  blossom  at  the  last : 

Saw  how  the  souls  of  men  had  grown, 
And  where  the  scythes  of  Truth  had  mown, 
Clear  space  for  Liberty's  white  throne  ; 

Saw  how,  by  sorrow  tried  and  proved, 
The  last  dark  stains  had  been  removed 
Forever  from  the  land  he  loved. 

Saw  Treason  crushed,  and  Freedom  crowned, 
And  clamorous  faction  gagged  and  bound, 
Gasping  its  life  out  on  the  ground ; 

While  over  all  his  country's  slopes 
Walked  swarming  troops  of  cheerful  hopes, 
Which  evermore  to  broader  scopes 

Increased,  with  power  that  comprehends 
The  world's  weal  in  its  own,  and  bends 
Self-needs  to  large,  unselfish  ends. 

Saw  how,  throughout  the  vast  extents 
Of  earth's  most  populous  continents, 
She  dropped  such  rare  heart-affluence, 

That,  from  beyond  the  farthest  seas, 
The  wondering  peoples  thronged  to  seize 
Her  proffered  pure  benignities  ; 

And  how,  of  all  her  trebled  host 

Of  widening  empires,  none  could  boast 

Whose  strength  or  love  was  uppermost, 


THE  MASSACHUSETTS  LINE. 

Because  they  grew  so  equal  there 
Beneath  the  flag,  which,  debonnaire, 
Waved  joyous  in  the  golden  air ; 

Wherefore  the  martyr,  gazing  clear 

Beyond  the  gloomy  atmosphere 

Which  shuts  us  in  with  doubt  and  fear,  — • 

He,  marking  how  her  high  increase 
Ran  greatening  in  perpetual  lease 
Through  balmy  years  of  odorous  peace. 

Greeted,  in  one  transcendent  cry 
Of  intense,  passionate  ecstacy, 
The  sight  that  thrilled  him  utterly : 

Saluting,  with  most  proud  disdain 
Of  murder  and  of  mortal  pain, 
The  vision  which  shall  be  again. 

So,  lifted  with  prophetic  pride, 
Raised  conquering  hands  to  heaven,  and  cried, 
"All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes  !  "  and  died. 


THE  MASSACHUSETTS  LINE. 

BY   ROBERT   LOWELL. 

Am: — "  Yankee  Doodle" 

I. 

STILL  first,  as  long  and  long  ago, 

Let  Massachusetts  muster  ; 
Give  her  the  post  right  next  the  foe  ; 

Be  sure  that  you  may  trust  her. 


10  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  LINE. 

She  was  the  first  to  give  her  blood 

For  freedom  and  for  honor ; 
She  trod  her  soil  to  crimson  mud : 

God's  blessing  be  upon  her  ! 

ii. 
She  never  faltered  for  the  right, 

Nor  ever  will  hereafter  : 
Fling  up  her  name  with  all  your  might, 

Shake  roof-tree  and  shake  rafter. 
But  of  old  deeds  she  need  not  brag, 

How  she  broke  sword  and  fetter  ; 
Fling  out  again  the  old  striped  flag ! 

She  '11  do  yet  more  and  better. 

in. 
In  peace  her  sails  fleck  all  the  seas, 

Her  mills  shake  every  river  ; 
And  where  are  scenes  so  fair  as  these 

God  and  her  true  hands  give  her  ? 
Her  claim  in  war  who  seek  to  rob  ? 

All  others  come  in  later  ;  — 
Hers  first  it  is  to  front  the  Mob, 

The  Tyrant  and  the  Traitor. 

IV. 

God  bless,  God  bless  the  glorious  State  ! 

Let  her  have  her  way  to  battle  ! 
She  '11  go  where  batteries  crash  with  fate, 

Or  where  thick  rifles  rattle. 
Give  her  the  Right,  and  let  her  try, 

And  then,  who  can,  may  press  her  ; 
She  '11  go  straight  on,  or  she  will  die  ; 

God  bless  her !  and  God  bless  her  ! 

Duanesburyh,  May  7,  1861. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S   CALL. 

BY   WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 

LAY  down  the  axe,  fling  by  the  spade  : 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough  ; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet-blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now ; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle-field. 

Our  country  calls  ;  away  !  away  ! 

To  where  the  blood-stream  blots  the  green. 
Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 
See,  from  a  thousand  coverts  —  see 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her  track  ; 
They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 

Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  flight, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight. 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 

And  ye  who  breast  the  mountain  storm 
By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 

Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 
A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 


12  OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL. 

Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 
The  whirlwind  ;  stand  in  her  defence  : 

The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock, 
As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 

And  ye,  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they ; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  bourne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  uptorn. 

And  ye  who  throng  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  hamlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long  murmuring  marge  of  sand, 
Come,  like  that  deep,  when  o'er  his  brim 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim 

A  helpless  wreck  against  his  shore. 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 

Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell ; 
But  we  are  many,  we  who  hold 

The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  well. 
Strike  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land 

Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 
That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 

And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be. 


UNITED  STATES  NATIONAL  ANTHEM.    13 
UNITED    STATES   NATIONAL   ANTHEM. 

BY    WILLIAM    ROSS    WALLACE. 

GOD  of  the  Free  !  upon  Thy  breath 
Our  Fag  is  for  the  Right  unrolled 

As  broad  and  brave  as  when  its  Stars 
First  lit  the  hallowed  time  of  old. 

For  Duty  still  its  folds  shall  fly, 

For  Honor  still  its  glories  burn, 
Where  Truth,  Religion,  Valor,  guard 

The  patriot's  sword  and  martyr's  urn. 

No  tyrant's  impious  step  is  ours ; 

No  lust  of  power  on  nations  rolled  : 
Our  Flag  —  for  friends,  a  starry  sky  ; 

For  traitors,  storm  in  every  fold. 

O,  thus  we  '11  keep  our  Nation's  life, 
Nor  fear  the  bolt  by  despots  hurled ; 

The  blood  of  all  the  world  is  here, 

And  they  who  strike  us  strike  the  world  ! 

God  of  the  Free  !  our  Nation  bless 
In  its  strong  manhood  as  its  birth ; 

And  make  its  life  a  Star  of  Hope 
For  all  the  struggling  of  the  earth. 

Then  shout  beside  thine  Oak,  O  North  ! 

O  South,  wave  answer  with  thy  Palm  ! 
And  in  our  Union's  heritage 

Together  sing  the  Nation's  Psalm  ! 


14-  THE  SEVENTH. 


THE    SEVENTH.* 

BY    FITZJAMES    O'BRIEN. 

AIR  —  "  Gilla  Machree." 

I. 

Ocu  !  we  're  the  boys 
That  hearts  desthroys 
Wid  making  love  and  fighting ; 
We  take  a  fort, 
The  girls  we  court, 
But  most  the  last  delight  in. 
To  fire  a  gun, 
Or  raise  some  fun, 
To  us  is  no  endeavor ; 
So  let  us  hear 
One  hearty  cheer  — 
The  Seventh's  lads  forever  ! 
Chorus  —  For  we  're  the  boys 

That  hearts  desthroys, 
Wid  making  love  and  fighting ; 
We  take  a  fort, 
The  girls  we  court, 
But  most  the  last  delight  in. 

*  The  Seventh  Regiment  New  York  Militia  left  the  city  of  New 
York,  on  its  way  to  the  defence  of  the  National  Capital,  April  19th, 
1861.  The  news  of  the  attack  upon  the  Sixth  Massachusetts  reached 
the  city  just  before  they  left  their  armory.  No  one  who  was  in  the 
city  at  that  time  will  ever  forget  the  excitement,  solemn,  tender, 
and  enthusiastic,  in  the  midst  of  which  this  favorite  regiment  set 
out  upon  a  march  which  it  was  supposed  would  be  bloody,  and 
which  proved  to  be  eventful.  A  prolonged  cry,  which  seemed  to 
be  both  cheer  and  wail,  accompanied  every  step  of  its  march  down 
Broadway.  War  was  new  to  us  then.  In  the  event  this  regiment 
never  went  into  action  as  a  bodjr;  but  its  highly  disciplined  ranks 
furnished  more  officers  than  came  from  any  other  to  the  national 
army.  The  above  lines  were  written  by  a  young  Irishman,  one 
of  its  members. 


THE  SEVENTH.  15 

ii. 

There 's  handsome  Joe, 

Whoso  constant  flow 
Of  merriment  unfailing, 

Upon  the  tramp, 

Or  in  the  camp, 
Will  keep  our  hearts  from  ailing. 

And  B and  Chat., 

Who  might  have  sat 
For  Pythias  and  Damon, 

Och !  whin  they  get 

Their  heavy  wet, 
They  get  as  high  as  Haman. 
For  we  're  the  boys 
That  hearts  desthroys,  &c. 

in. 

Like  Jove  above 

We  're  fond  of  love, 
But  fonder  still  of  victuals ; 

Wid  turtle-steaks 

An'  cod-fish  cakes 
We  always  fills  our  kittles. 

To  dhrown  aich  dish 

We  dhrinks  like  fish, 
And  mum 's  the  word  we  utther ; 

An'  thin  we  swill 

Our  Leoville, 

That  oils  our  throats  like  butther. 
For  we  're  the  boys 
That  hearts  desthroys,  &c. 

IV. 

We  make  from  hay 
A  splindid  lay, 

From  beans  a  gorgeous  coffee ; 
Our  crame  is  prime, 
Wid  chalk  and  lime  — 


1 6  THE  SEVENTH. 

In  fact,  't  is  quite  a  throphy. 
Our  chickens  roast, 
Wid  butthered  toast, 
I  'm  sure  would  timpt  St.  Payther  ; 
Now  you  '11  declare 
Our  bill  of  fare 
It  could  n't  be  complayther. 
For  we  're  the  boys 
That  hearts  desthroys,  &2. 

v. 

Now  silence  all, 
While  I  recall 

A  memory  sweet  and  tender ; 
The  maids  and  wives 
That  light  our  lives 
With  deep,  enduring  splendor  — 
We  '11  give  no  cheer 
For  those  so  dear, 
But  in  our  hearts  we  '11  bless  them, 
And  pray  to-night, 
That  angels  bright 
May  watch  them  and  caress  them. 
For  we  're  the  boys 
That  hearts  desthroys, 
Wid  making  love  and  fighting ; 
We  take  a  fort, 
The  girls  we  court, 
Buf.  most  the  last  delight  in. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA  GENTLEMAN.  ij 

SOUTH    CAROLINA    GENTLEMAN. 

AIR:  —  "  The  Fine  Old  English  Gentleman.1'' 

DOWN  in  a  small  Palmetto  State  the  curious  ones  may 
find, 

A  ripping,  tearing  gentleman,  of  an  uncommon  kind, 

A  staggering,  swaggering  sort  of  chap,  who  takes  his 
whiskey  straight, 

And  frequently  condemns  his  eyes  to  that  ultimate  ven 
geance  which  a  clergyman  of  high  standing  has 
assured  must  be  a  sinner's  fate  : 

This  South  Carolina  gentleman,  one  of  the  present  time. 

You  trace  his  genealogy,  and  not  far  back  you  '11  see, 

A  most  undoubted  octoroon,  or  mayhap  a  mustee, 

And  if  you   note   the  shaggy  locks   that   cluster  on  his 

brow, 
You  '11  find  that  every  other  hair  is  varied  with  a  kink 

that  seldom  denotes  pure  Caucasian  blood,  but  on 

the  contrary  betrays  an   admixture  with  a  race 

not  particularly  popular  now  : 
This  South  Carolina  gentleman,  one  of  the  present  time. 

He  always  wears  a  full-dress  coat,  pre- Adamite  in  cut, 

With  waistcoat  of  the  loudest  style,  through  which  his 
ruffles  jut, 

Six  breastpins  deck  his  horrid  front,  and  on  his  fingers 
shine 

Whole  invoices  of  diamond  rings  which  would  hardly 
pass  muster  with  the  Original  Jacobs  in  Chatham- 
street  for  jewels  gen-u-5ne  : 

This  South  Carolina  gentleman,  one  of  the  present  time. 

He  chews  tobacco  by  the  pound  and  spits  upon  the  floor 
If  there  is  not  a  box  of  sand  behind  the  nearest  door, 


1 8  SOUTH  CAROLINA  GENTLEMAN. 

And  when  he  takes  his  weekly  spree  he  clears  a  mighty 
track, 

Of  everything  that  bears  the  shape  of  whiskey-skin,  gin 
and  sugar,  brandy  sour,  peach  and  honey,  irre 
pressible  cock-tail  rum,  and  gum,  and  luscious 
apple-jack : 

This  South  Carolina  gentleman,  one  of  the  present  time. 

He  takes  to  euchre  kindly,  too,  and  plays  an  awful  hand, 

Especially  when  those  he  tricks  his  style  don't  under 
stand, 

And  if  he  wins,  why  then  he  stoops  to  pocket  all  the 
stakes, 

But  if  he  loses,  then  he  says  to  the  unfortunate  stranger 
who  had  chanced  to  win :  "  It  's  my  opinion  you 
are  a  cursed  abolitionist,  and  if  you  don't  leave 
South  Carolina  in  one  hour  you  will  be  hung 
like  a  dog."  But  no  offer  to  pay  his  loss  he 
makes : 

This  South  Carolina  gentleman,  one  of  the  present  time. 

Of  course  he  's  all  the  time  in  debt  to  those  who  credit 
give, 

Yet  manages  upon  the  best  the  market  yields  to  live  ; 

But  if  a  Northern  creditor  asks  him  his  bill  to  heed, 

This  honorable  gentleman  instantly  draws  two  bowie- 
knives  and  a  pistol,  dons  a  blue  cockade,  and 
declares  that  in  consequence  of  the  repeated 
aggressions  of  the  North,  and  its  gross  violations 
of  the  Constitution,  he  feels  that  it  would  utterly 
degrade  him  to  pay  any  debt  whatever,  and  that 
in  fact  he  has  at  last  determined  to  SECEDE  : 

This  South  Carolina  gentleman,  one  of  the  present  time. 


ARMY  HYMN.  19 


ARMY  HYMN. 

BY  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

"  Old  Hundred." 

O  LORD  of  Hosts  !  Almighty  King  ! 
Behold  the  sacrifice  we  bring ! 
To  every  arm  Thy  strength  impart, 
Thy  spirit  shed  through  every  heart  ! 

Wake  in  our  breasts  the  living  fires, 
The  holy  faith  that  warmed  our  sires ; 
Thy  hand  hath  made  our  Nation  free  : 
To  die  for  her  is  serving  Thee. 

Be  Thou  a  pillared  flame  to  show 
The  midnight  snare,  the  silent  foe ; 
And  when  the  battle  thunders  loud, 
Still  guide  us  in  its  moving  cloud. 

God  of  all  nations !   Sovereign  Lord  ! 
In  Thy  dread  name  we  draw  the  sword, 
We  lift  the  starry  flag  on  high 
That  fills  with  light  our  stormy  sky. 

From  Treason's  rent,  from  Murder's  stain, 
Guard  Thou  its  folds  till  Peace  shall  reign, 
Till  fort  and  field,  till  shore  and  sea 
Join  our  loud  anthem,  PRAISE  TO  THEE  ! 


20  THE  PRESENT  CRISIS. 

THE    STARS   AND    STRIPES. 

BY    JAMES    T.    FIELDS. 

RALLY  round  the  flag,  boys,  — 
Give  it  to  the  breeze  ! 

That's  the  banner  we  love 
On  the  land  and  seas. 

Brave  hearts  are  under  it ; 

Let  the  traitors  brag ; 
Gallant  lads,  fire  away  ! 

And  fight  for  the  flag. 

Their  flag  is  but  a  rag  — 
Ours  is  the  true  one ; 

Up  with  the  Stars  and  Stripes ! 
Down  with  the  new  one  ! 

Let  our  colors  fly,  boys,  — 
Guard  them  day  and  night ; 

For  victory  is  liberty, 

And  God  will  bless  the  right. 


THE   PRESENT    CRISIS. 

BY   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

WHEN  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad 

earth's  aching  breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to 

west ; 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within 

him  climb 


THE   PRESENT  CRISIS.  21 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of 
Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instan 
taneous  throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems  to 
and  fro ; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start. 

Nation  wildly  looks  on  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips 
apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  beneath 
the  Future's  heart. 

For  mankind    are   one   in   spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears 

along, 
Hound  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of  right 

or  wrong  ; 
Whether   conscious   or  unconscious,  yet   humanity's  vast 

frame, 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres,  feels  the  gush  of  joy 

or  shame ; 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race,  all  the  rest  have  equal 

claim. 

Once,  to  every  man  and  nation,  comes  the  moment  to 

decide, 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or 

evil  side ; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each  the 

bloom  or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon 

the  right, 
And   the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and 

that  light. 


22  THE  PRESENT  CRISIS. 

Hast   thou  chosen,   O  my  people,  on  whose  party   thou 

shalt  stand, 
Ere    the   Doom   from  its  worn   sandals  shakes  the   dust 

against  our  land  ? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  't  is  Truth  alone 

is  strong; 
And  albeit   she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see   around  her 

throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from  all 

wrong. 

We  see  dimly,  in  the  Present,  what  is  small  and  what  is 
great ; 

Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm 
of  Fate ; 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular  —  amid  the  market's  din, 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave 
within  : 

"  They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make  com 
promise  with  Sin ! " 

Slavery,    the    earth-born    Cyclops,    fellest    of   the    giant 

brood, 
Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who  have  drenched 

the  earth  with  blood, 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our  purer  day, 
Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable  prey ; 
Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless  children 

play? 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes,  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers'  graves  ; 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light  a 

crime. 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards  ?  —  steered  by 

men  behind  their  time  ? 
Turn  those   tracks   toward   Past,  or   Future,  that   make 

Plymouth  Rock  sublime  ? 


THE   TWO   FURROWS.  23 

They  were  men  of  present  valor  —  stalwart  old  icono 
clasts  ; 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was  the 
Past's ; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that  has 
made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender 
spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that,  great  Impulse  which  drove  them 
across  the  sea. 

JN'ew  occasions  teach  new  duties !  Time  makes  ancient 
good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep 
abreast  of  Truth ; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires !  we  ourselves  must 
Pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  des 
perate  winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood- 
rusted  key. 


THE   TWO    FURROWS. 

BY    C.    H.   WEBB. 

THE  spring-time  came,  but  not.  with  mirth ;  — 

The  banner  of  our  trust, 
And,  with  it,  the  best  hopes  of  earth 

Were  trailing  in  the  dust. 

The  farmer  saw  the  shame  from  far, 

And  stopped  his  plough  a-field ; 
"  Not  the  blade  of  peace,  but  the  brand  of  war, 

This  arm  of  mine  must  wield. 


24  THE   TWO   FURROWS. 

"  When  traitor  hands  that  flag  would  stain, 
Their  homes  let  women  keep  ; 

Until  its  stars  burn  bright  again, 
Let  others  sow  and  reap." 

The  farmer  sighed  —  "A  lifetime  long 
The  plough  has  been  my  trust ; 

In  truth  it  were  an  arrant  wrong 
To  leave  it  now  to  rust." 

With  ready  strength  the  farmer  tore 

The  iron  from  the  wood, 
And  to  the  village  smith  he  bore 

That  ploughshare  stout  and  good. 

The  blacksmith's  arms  were  bare  and  brown, 
And  loud  the  bellows  roared ; 

The  farmer  flung  his  ploughshare  down  — 
"  Now  forge  me  out  a  sword  !  " 

And  then  a  merry,  merry  chime 

The  sounding  anvil  rung  ; 
Good  sooth,  it  was  a  nobler  rhyme 

Than  ever  poet  sung. 

The  blacksmith  wrought  with  skill  that  day ; 

The  blade  was  keen  and  bright ; 
And  now,  where  thickest  is  the  fray, 

The  farmer  leads  the  fight. 

Not  as  of  old  that  blade  he  sways, 
To  break  the  meadow's  sleep, 

But  through  the  rebel  ranks  he  lays 
A  furrow  broad  and  deep. 

The  farmer's  face  is  burned  and  brown, 
But  light  is  on  his  brow  ; 


"  OUT  IN  THE  COLD:'  25 

Right  well  he  wots  what  blessings  crown 
The  furrow  of  the  Plough. 


But  better  is  to-day's  success," 

Thus  ran  the  farmer's  word ; 
For  nations  yet  unborn  shall  bless 

This  furrow  of  the  Sword." 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


"OUT  IN  THE  COLD."* 

BY  LUCY   LARCOM. 

WHAT  is  the  threat  ?     "  Leave  her  out  in  the  cold  !  " 
Loyal  New  England,  too  loyally  bold : 
Hater  of  treason,  —  ah  !  that  is  her  crime  ! 
Lover  of  Freedom,  —  too  true  for  her  time  ! 

Out  in  the  cold  ?     Oh,  she  chooses  the  place, 
Rather  than  share  in  a  sheltered  disgrace ; 
Rather  than  sit  at  a  cannibal  feast ; 
Rather  than  mate  with  the  blood-reeking  beast ! 

Leave  out  New  England  ?     And  what  will  she  do, 

Stormy-browed  sisters,  forsaken  by  you  ? 

Sit  on  her  Rock,  her  desertion  to  weep  ? 

Or.  like  a  Sappho,  plunge  thence  in  the  deep  ? 

No ;  our  New  England  can  put  on  no  airs,  — 
Nothing  will  change  the  calm  look  that  she  wears  : 

*  Among  the  many  propositions  for  compromise  after  the  out 
break  of  the  rebellion,  perhaps  none  was  more  persistently  urged 
by  a  certain  class  of  politicians  than  the  formation  of  a  new 
"  Union, "  from  which  New  England  was  to  be  excluded,  —  left 
out  in  the  cold,  was  the  phrase.  The  proposers  forgot  that  New 
England  had  stretched  westward  along  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  to 
the  Mississippi. 


2b  "OUT  IN  THE   COLD." 

Life  's  a  rough  lesson  she  learned  from  the  first, 
Up  into  wisdom  through  poverty  nursed. 

Not  more  distinct  on  his  tables  of  stone 

Was  the  grand  writing  to  Moses  made  known, 

Than  is  engraven,  in  letters  of  light, 

On  her  foundations  the  One  Law  of  Right. 

She  is  a  Christian  :  she  smothers  her  ire, 
Trims  up  the  candle,  and  stirs  the  home  fire  ; 
Thinking  and  working  and  waiting  the  day 
When  her  wild  sisters  shall  leave  their  mad  play. 

Out  in  the  cold,  where  the  free  winds  are  blowing  ; 
Out  in  the  cold,  where  the  strong  oaks  are  growing ; 
Guards  she  all  growths  that  are  living  and  great,  — 
Growths  to  rebuild  every  tottering  State. 

"  Notions  "  worth  heeding  to  shape  she  has  wrought, 
Lifted  and  fixed  on  the  granite  of  thought : 
What  she  has  done  may  the  wide  world  behold ! 
What  she  is  doing,  too,  out  in  the  cold  ! 

Out  in  the  cold !  she  is  glad  to  be  there, 
Breathing  the  north  wind,  the  clear  healthful  air ; 
Saved  from  the  hurricane  passions  that  rend 
Hearts  that  once  named  her  a  sister  and  friend. 

There  she  will  stay,  while  they  bluster  and  foam, 
Planning  their  comfort  when  they  shall  come  home  ; 
Building  the  Union  an  adamant  wall, 
Freedom-cemented,  that  never  can  fall. 

Freedom,  —  dear-bought  with  the  blood  of  her  sons, 
See  the  red  current  !  right  nobly  it  runs ! 
Life  of  her  life  is  not  too  much  to  give 
For  the  dear  Nation  she  taught  how  to  live. 


110 1   SONS    OF  THE   PURITAN. 

Vainly  they  shout  to  you,  sturdy  Northwest ! 

T  is  her  own  heart  that  beats  warm  in  your  breast ; 

Sisters  in  nature  as  well  as  in  name  ; 

Sisters  in  loyalty,  true  to  that  claim. 

Freedom  your  breath  is,  O  broad-shouldered  North  ! 
Turn  from  the  subtle  miasma  gone  forth 
Out  of  the  South  land,  from  Slavery's  fen, 
Battening  demons,  but  poisoning  men  ! 

Still  on  your  Rock,  my  New  England,  sit  sure, 
Keeping  the  air  for  the  great  country  pure  ! 
There  you  the  "  wayward  "  ones  yet  shall  enfold  : 
There  they  will  come  to  you,  out  in  the  cold  ! 

Taunton  Gazette. 


HO!  SONS  OF  THE  PURITAN. 

The  Cavaliers,  Jacobites,  and  Huguenots,  who  settled  the  South, 
naturally  hate,  condemn,  and  despise  the  Puritans  who  settled  the 
North.  The  former  are  master  races;  the  latter,  a  slave  race, 
descendants  of  the  Saxon  serfs.  —  D&  Bo 

who  through  a  cloud, 


Not  of  war  only  but  detractions  rude, 

Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 

To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast  ploughed. 

Milton1?  Sonnet  to  Cromwell. 

Ho  !  sons  of  the  Puritan  !  sons  of  the  Roundhead, 

Leave  your  fields  fallow  and  ily  to  the  war  ; 
The  foe  is  advancing,  the  trumpet  hath  sounded,  — 

*  This  nonsense  had  been  so  long  talked  and  written  in  the 
Slave  States  before  the  rebellion,  that  many  of  the  people  there 
actually  believed  it,  although  the  population  of  those  States  is  as 
purely  Anglo-Saxon  as  that  of  the  Free  States,  or  of  England. 
The  Huguenot  blood  at  the  South  is  so  small  in  quantity  as  to  be 


28  HO!   SONS  OF   THE  PURITAN. 

To  the  rescue  of  freedom,  truth,  justice,  and  law  ! 
Hear  His  voice  bid  ye  on 
Who  spake  unto  Gideon  : 
"  Rend  the  curtains  of  Midian 
From  Heshbon  to  Dor  !  " 

From  green-covered  Chalgrave,  from  Naseby  and  Marston, 

Rich  with  the  blood  of  the  Earnest  and  True, 
The  war-cry  of  Freedom,  resounding  hath  passed  on 
The  wings  of  two  centuries,  and  come  down  to  you : 
"  Forward  !   to  glory  ye, 
Though  the  road  gory  be ! 
Strong  of  arm  —  let  your  story  be  — 
And  swift  to  pursue  !  " 

List !  list !  to  the  time-honored  voices  that  loudly 

Speak  from  our  Mother-land  o'er  the  sad  waves,  — 
From   Hampden's  dead  lips,  and    from  Cromwell's  who 

proudly 

Called  freemen  to  palaces,  tyrants  to  graves : 

"  Sons  of  the  Good  and  Pure  ! 

Let  not  their  blood  endure 

The  attaint  of  a  brood  impure 

Of  cowards  and  slaves  !  " 

And  old  Massachusetts'  hills  echo  the  burden : 
"  Sons  of  the  Pure-in-heart  never  give  o'er  ! 

Though  blood  flow  in  rivers,  and  death  be  the  guerdon, 
All  the  sharper  your  swords  be,  —  death  welcome  the 
more ! 

of  no  account;  and  if  there  ever  were  a  master-race,  it  is  the 
Anglo-Saxon,  as  every  other  which  has  been  brought  into  contact 
with  it  knows.  And  what  shall  be  said  of  the  ignorance  that 
could  be  presumed  not  to  know  that  the  Cavaliers  were  utterly 
overthrown  by  the  Puritans,  and  that  the  party  which  overcame 
the  Jacobites,  and  brought  in  William  of  Orange,  and  maintained 
the  new  dynasty,  was  composed  in  great  measure  of  the  noblest 
families  in  England  V 


HO!  SONS  OF  THE  PURITAN.  29 

Swear  ye  to  sheathe  your  swords 
Not  till  the  heathen  hordes 
On  their  craven  knees  breathe  the  words, 
'  The  Lord's  we  restore ! ' " 

Accursed  be  the  land  that  shall  give  ye  cold  greeting,  — 

Cursed  in  its  coffers,  and  cursed  in  its  fame ! 
And  woe  to  the  traitors,  feigning  friendship  and  meeting 
Your  trust  with  assassins'  dark  weapons  of  shame. 
As  did  Fennel's  high 
Parapets  lowly  lie, 
And  the  Princes  of  Succoth  die, 
So  fare  these  the  same  ! 

Though  sharp  be  the  throes  of  these  last  tribulations, 

Look  ye  !  a  brighter  dawn  kindles  the  day  ! 
O,  children  of  Saints,  and  the  hope  of  the  Nation, 
Look  aloft !  your  deliverance  cometh  for  aye  ! 
Soon,  from  those  fairer  skies, 
White-winged,  the  herald  flies 
To  the  warders  of  Paradise, 
To  call  them  away ! 

Then  on  to  the  battle-shock !  and  if  in  anguish, 

Gasping,  and  feeble-pulsed,  low  on  the  field, 
Struck  down  by  the  traitor's  fell  prowess  ye  languish, 
In  Jehovah  behold  ye  your  Refuge  and  Shield  ! 
Or,  if  in  victory, 
Doubts  shall  come  thick  to  ye, 
Trust  in  Him,  —  He  shall  speak  to  ye 
The  mystery  revealed. 

Ho !  sons  of  the  Puritan  !  sons  of  the  Roundhead, 
Leave  your  fields  fallow,  your  ships  at  the  shore  ! 

The  foe  is  advancing,  the  trumpet  hath  sounded, 

And  the  jaws  of  their  Moloch  are  dripping  with  gore 


30  THE    UNIVERSAL    COTTON-GIN. 

Raise  the  old  pennon's  staff! 
Let  the  fierce  cannons  laugh, 
Till  the  votaries  of  Ammon's  calf 
Blaspheme  ye  no  more  ! 


THE    UNIVERSAL    COTTON-GIN. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF   "  COTTON   STATES." 

HE  journeyed  all  creation  through, 
A  pedlar's  wagon  trotting  in  ; 

A  haggard  man  of  sallow  hue, 

Upon  his  nose  the  goggles  blue, 

And  in  his  cart  a  model  U- 

niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

His  seedy  garb  was  sad  to  view  — 

Hard  seemed  the  strait  he  'd  gotten  in  ; 
Pie  plainly  could  n't  boast  a  sou, 
And  meanly  fared  on  water-gru 
el,  or  had  swallowed  whole  a  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

To  all  he  met  —  Turk,  Christian,  Jew  — 
He  meekly  said,  "  I  'm  not  in  tin  ; 

In  fact,  I  'm  in  a  serious  stew, 

And  therefore  offer  unto  you, 

At  half  its  worth,  my  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

"  As  sure  as  four  is  two  and  two, 

It  rules  the  world  we  're  plotting  in  ; 


THE    UNIVERSAL    COTTON-GIN.  31 

It  made  and  ruined  Yankee  Doo 
dle,  stuck  to  him  like  Cooper's  glue, 
And  so  to  you  would  stick  this  U- 

niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 

iiiversal  nigger-cotton-gin." 

Now  Johnny  Bull  the  pedlar  knew, 

And  thus  replied  with  not  a  grin  : 
"  Hi  loves  yer  '  gin '  like  London  brew 
ed  ale,  but  loathes  the  hinstitu- 
tion  vitch  propels  your  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

"  Hi  know  such  coves  as  you  a  few, 

And,  zur,  just  now,  hi  'm  not  in  tin  ; 
Hi  tells  you  vot,  great  Yankee  Doo 
dle  might  hincline  to  put  me  through, 
Hif  hi  should  buy  your  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin." 

Then  spoke  smooth  Monsieur  Parlez-vous, 

Whose  gilded  throne  was  got  in  sin  — 
(As  was  he,  too,  if  tales  are  true :) 
"  I  does  not  vant  your  model  U-" 
(He  sounds  a  V  for  a  W) 

"  niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
ni versa!  nigger-cotton-gin." 

'•  A  negar  in  de  fence  I  view, 

Your  grand  machine  lie  's  rotting  in  ; 
I  smells  him  now  ;  he  stinketh  —  lo-h-e-w  ! 
Give  me  a  good  tobacco  chew, 
And  you  may  keeps  your  model  U- 

niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 

niversal  nigger-cotton-gin." 


32  THE  UNIVERSAL  COTTON-GIN. 

The  pedlar  then  sloped  quickly  to 
The  land  he  was  begotten  in ; 
With  woeful  visage,  feelings  blue, 
He  sadly  questioned  what  to  do, 
When  none  would  buy  his  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

From  out  his  pocket  then  he  drew 

A  rag  that  blood  was  clotting  in  ; 
It  had  a  field  of  heavenly  blue, 
Was  flecked  with  stars  —  the  very  few 
That  glimmered  on  his  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

He  gazed  long  on  its  tarnished  hue, 

And  mourned  the  fix  he  'd  gotten  in ; 
Then  filled  his  eyes  with  contrite  dew, 
As  in  its  folds  his  nose  he  blew, 
And  thus  addressed  his  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin. 

"  Then,  crownless  king,  thy  days  are  few  ; 

The  world  thou  art  forgotten  in  ; 
Ere  thou  dost  die,  thy  life  review,  — 
Repent  thy  crimes,  thy  wrongs  undo, 
Give  freedom  to  the  dusky  crew 
Whose  blood  now  stains  the  model  U- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin- 
niversal  nigger-cotton-gin." 


UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTRE  VILLE.  33 
UPON   THE    HILL    BEFORE    CENTREVILLE. 

July  21,  1861.* 

BY    GEORGE    H.    BOKER. 

I  'LL  tell  you  what  I  heard  that  day : 
I  heard  the  great  guns,  far  away, 
Boom  after  boom.      Their  sullen  sound 
Shook  all  the  shuddering  air  around ; 
And  shook,  ah  me  !   my  shrinking  ear, 
And  downward  shook  the  hanging  tear 
That,  in  despite  of  manhood's  pride, 
Rolled  o'er  my  face,  a  scalding  tide. 
And  then  I  prayed.      O  God  !  I  prayed, 
As  never  stricken  saint,  who  laid 
His  hot  cheek  to  the  holy  tomb 
Of  Jesus,  in  the  midnight  gloom. 

"  What  saw  I  ?  "     Little.      Clouds  of  dust ; 
Great  squares  of  men,  with  standards  thrust 
Against  their  course  ;  dense  columns  crowned 
With  billowing  steel.      Then,  bound  on  bound, 
The  long  black  lines  of  cannon  poured 
Behind  the  horses,  streaked  and  gored 
With  sweaty  speed.     Anon  shot  by, 
Like  a  lone  meteor  of  the  sky, 
A  single  horseman  ;  and  he  shone 
His  bright  face  on  me,  and  was  gone. 
All  these  with  rolling  drums,  with  cheers, 

*  The  day  of  the  battle  of  Bull  Run,  in  which  the  reserve  of 
the  Union  Army  rested  upon  Centreville.  In  regard  to  the  mere 
time  at  which  it  was  written,  this  poem  is  here  out  of  place,  as  will 
be  seen  by  an  allusion  toward  its  close.  But  it  paints  so  faithfully 
that  disastrous,  shameful  day,  and  so  truthfully  expresses  the  feel 
ings  which  it  roused  throughout  the  Free  States,  that  this  is  its 
proper  position. 

3 


34    UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTREV1LLK. 

With  songs  familiar  to  my  ears, 
Passed  under  the  far-hanging  cloud, 
And  vanished,  and  my  heart  was  proud ! 

For  mile  on  mile  the  line  of  war 
Extended  ;  and  a  steady  roar, 
As  of  some  distant  stormy  sea, 
On  the  south-wind  came  up  to  me. 
And  high  in  air,  and  over  all, 
Grew,  like  a  fog,  that  murky  pall, 
Beneath  whose  gloom  of  dusty  smoke 
The  cannon  flamed,  the  bombshell  broke, 
And  the  sharp  rattling  volley  rang, 
And  shrapnel  roared,  and  bullets  sang, 
And  fierce-eyed  men,  with  panting  breath, 
Toiled  onward  at  the  work  of  death. 
I  could  not  see,  but  knew  too  well, 
That  underneath  that  cloud  of  hell, 
Which  still  grew  more  by  great  degrees, 
Man  strove  with  man  in  deeds  like  these. 

But  when  the  sun  had  passed  his  stand 
At  noon,  behold  !  on  every  hand 
The  dark  brown  vapor  backward  bore, 
And  fainter  came  the  dreadful  roar 
From  the  huge  sea  of  striving  men. 
Thus  spoke  my  rising  spirit  then : 
"  Take  comfort  from  that  dying  sound, 
Faint  heart,  the  foe  is  giving  ground  ! " 
And  one,  who  taxed  his  horse's  powers, 
Flung  at  me,  "  Ho  !  the  day  is  ours  ! " 
And  scoured  along.      So  swift  his  pace, 
I  took  no  memory  of  his  face. 
Then  turned  I  once  again  to  Heaven ; 
All  things  appeared  so  just  and  even ; 
So  clearly  from  the  highest  Cause 
Traced  I  the  downward-working  laws  : — 


UPON  THE  II ILL  BEFORE  CENTREVILLE.    35 

Those  moral  springs,  made  evident, 
In  the  grand,  triumph-crowned  event. 
So  half  I  shouted,  and  half  sang, 
Like  Jephtha's  daughter,  to  the  clang 
Of  my  spread,  cymbal-striking  palms, 
Some  fragments  of  thanksgiving  psalms. 

Meanwhile  a  solemn  stillness  fell 

Upon  the  land.      O'er  hill  and  dell 

Failed  every  sound.     My  heart  stood  still, 

Waiting  before  some  coining  ill. 

The  silence  was  more  sad  and  dread, 

Under  that  canopy  of  lead, 

Than  the  wild  tumult  of  the  war 

That  raged  a  little  Avhile  before. 

All  Nature,  in  her  work  of  death, 

Paused  for  one  last,  despairing  breath ; 

And,  cowering  to  the  earth,  I  drew 

From  her  strong  breast  my  strength  anew. 

When  I  arose,  I  wondering  saw 

Another  dusty  vapor  draw 

From  the  far  right,  its  sluggish  way 

Toward  the  main  cloud,  that  frowning  lay 

Against  the  western-sloping  sun  ; 

And  all  the  war  was  re-begun, 

Ere  this  fresh  marvel  of  my  sense 

Caught  from  my  mind  significance. 

And  then  —  why  ask  me  ?      O  my  God  ! 

Would  I  had  lain  beneath  the  sod, 

A  patient  clod,  for  many  a  day, 

And  from  my  bones  and  mouldering  clay 

The  rank  field  grass  and  flowers  had  sprung, 

Ere  the  base  sight,  that  struck  and  stung 

My  very  soul,  confronted  me, 

Shamed  at  my  own  humanity. 

O  happy  dead  !  who  early  fell, 

Ye  have  no  wretched  tale  to  tell 


36    UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTREV[LLE. 

Of  causeless  fear  and  coward  flight, 
Of  victory  snatched  beneath  your  sight, 
Of  martial  strength  and  honor  lost, 
Of  mere  life  bought  at  any  cost, 
Of  the  deep,  lingering  mark  of  shame, 
Forever  scorched  on  brow  and  name, 
That  no  new  deeds,  however  bright, 
Shall  banish  from  men's  loathful  sight ! 
Ye  perished  in  your  conscious  pride, 
Ere  this  vile  scandal  opened  wide 
A  wound  that  cannot  close  or  heal. 
Ye  perished  steel  to  levelled  steel, 
Stern  votaries  of  the  god  of  war, 
Filled  with  his  godhead  to  the  core  1 
Ye  died  to  live,  these  lived  to  die, 
Beneath  the  scorn  of  every  eye ! 
How  eloquent  your  voices  sound 
From  the  low  chambers  under  ground ! 
How  clear  each  separate  title  burns 
From  your  high  set  and  laurelled  urns  ! 
While  these,  who  walk  about  the  earth, 
Are  blushing  at  their  very  birth  ! 
And,  though  they  talk,  and  go,  and  come, 
Their  moving  lips  are  worse  than  dumb. 
Ye  sleep  beneath  the  valley's  dew, 
And  all  the  nation  mourns  for  you ; 
So  sleep  till  God  shall  wake  the  lands  ! 
For  angels,  armed  with  fiery  brands, 
Await  to  take  you  by  the  hands. 


The  right-hand  vapor  broader  grew  ; 
It  rose,  and  joined  itself  unto 
The  main  cloud  with  a  sudden  dash. 
Loud  and  more  near  the  cannon's  crash 
Came  toward  me,  and  I  heard  a  sound 
As  if  all  hell  had  broken  bound,  — 


UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTRE  VLLLE.   37 

A  cry  of  agony  and  fear. 

Still  the  dark  vapor  rolled  more  near, 

Till  at  my  very  feet  it  tossed 

The  van  ward  fragments  of  our  host. 

Can  man,  Thy  image,  sink  so  low, 

Thou,  who  hast  bent  Thy  tinted  bow 

Across  the  storm  and  raging  main ; 

Whose  laws  both  loosen  and  restrain 

The  powers  of  earth,  without  whose  will 

No  sparrow's  little  life  is  still  ? 

Was  fear  of  hell,  or  want  of  faith, 

Or  the  brute's  common  dread  of  death 

The  passion  that  began  a  chase, 

Whose  goal  was  ruin  and  disgrace  ? 

What  tongue  the  fearful  sight  may  tell  ? 

What  horrid  nightmare  ever  fell 

Upon  the  restless  sleep  of  crime  — 

What  history  of  another  time  — 

What  dismal  vision,  darkly  seen 

By  the  stern-featured  Florentine, 

Can  give  a  hint  to  dimly  draw 

The  likeness  of  the  scene  I  saw  ? 

I  saw,  yet  saw  not.     In  that  sea, 

That  chaos  of  humanity, 

No  more  the  eye  could  catch  and  keep 

A  single  point,  than  on  the  deep 

The  eye  may  mark  a  single  wave, 

Where  hurrying  myriads  leap  and  rave. 

Men  of  all  arms,  and  all  costumes, 

Bare-headed,  decked  with  broken  plumes ; 

Soldiers  and  officers,  and  those 

Who  wore  but  civil-suited  clothes  ; 

On  foot  or  mounted  —  some  bestrode 

Steeds  severed  from  their  harnessed  load ; 

Wild  mobs  of  white-topped  wagons,  cars, 

Of  wounded,  red  with  bleeding  scars ; 

The  whole  grim  panoply  of  war 


38    UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTREV1LLE. 

Surged  on  me  with  a  deafening  roar ! 

All  shades  of  fear,  disfiguring  man, 

Glared  through  their  faces'  brazen  tan. 

Not  one  a  moment  paused,  or  stood 

To  see  what  enemy  pursued. 

With  shrieks  of  fear,  and  yells  of  pain, 

With  every  muscle  on  the  strain, 

Onward  the  struggling  masses  bore. 

O,  had  the  foemen  lain  before, 

They  'd  trampled  them  to  dust  and  gore, 

And  swept  their  lines  and  batteries 

As  autumn  sweeps  the  windy  trees  ! 

Here  one  cast  forth  his  wounded  friend, 

And  with  his  sword  or  musket-end 

Urged  on  the  horses  ;  there  one  trod 

Upon  the  likeness  of  his  God, 

As  if 't  were  dust ;  a  coward  here 

Grew  valiant  with  his  very  fear, 

And  struck  his  weaker  comrade  prone, 

And  struggled  to  the  front  alone. 

All  had  one  purpose,  one  sole  aim, 

That  mocked  the  decency  of  shame, 

To  fly,  by  any  means  to  fly ; 

They  cared  not  how,  they  asked  not  why. 

I  found  a  voice.     My  burning  blood 

Flamed  up.      Upon  a  mound  I  stood ; 

I  could  no  more  restrain  my  voice 

Than  could  the  prophet  of  God's  choice. 

"  Back,  animated  dirt !  "  I  cried, 

"  Back,  on  your  wretched  lives,  and  hide 

Your  shame  beneath  your  native  clay ! 

Or  if  the  foe  affrights  you,  slay 

Your  own  base  selves ;  and,  dying,  leave 

Your  children's  tearful  cheeks  to  grieve, 

Not  quail  and  blush,  when  you  shall  come, 

Alive,  to  their  degraded  home ! 

Your  wives  will  look  askance  with  scorn ; 


UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTREVILLE. 

Your  boys,  and  infants  yet  unborn, 

Will  curse  you  to  God's  holy  face  ! 

Heaven  holds  no  pardon  in  its  grace 

For  cowards.      Oh,  are  such  as  ye 

The  guardians  of  our  liberty  ? 

Back,  if  one  trace  of  manhood  still 

May  nerve  your  arm  and  brace  your  will ! 

You  stain  your  country  in  the  eyes 

Of  Europe  and  her  monarchies  ! 

The  despots  laugh,  the  peoples  groan ; 

Man's  cause  is  lost  and  overthrown ! 

I  curse  you,  by  the  sacred  blood 

That  freely  poured  its  purple  flood 

Down  Bunker's  heights,  on  Monmouth's  plain, 

From  Georgia  to  the  rocks  of  Maine ! 

I  curse  you,  by  the  patriot  band 

Whose  bones  are  crumbling  in  the  land  ! 

By  those  who  saved  what  these  had  won  — 

In  the  high  name  of  Washington ! " 

Then  I  remember  little  more. 

As  the  tide's  rising  waves,  that  pour 

Over  some  low  and  rounded  rock, 

The  coming  mass,  with  one  great  shock, 

Flowed  o'er  the  shelter  of  my  mound, 

And  raised  me  helpless  from  the  ground. 

As  the  huge  shouldering  billows  bear, 

Half  in  the  sea  and  half  in  air, 

A  swimmer  on  their  foaming  crest, 

So  the  foul  throng  beneath  me  pressed, 

Swept  me  along,  with  curse  and  blow, 

And  flung  me  —  where,  I  ne'er  shall  know. 

When  I  awoke,  a  steady  rain 
Made  rivulets  across  the  plain  ; 
And  it  was  dark  —  oh  !  very  dark. 
I  was  so  stunned  as  scarce  to  mark 
The  ghostly  figures  of  the  trees, 


40     UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTRE  VILLE. 

Or  hear  the  sobbing  of  the  breeze 
That  flung  the  wet  leaves  to  and  fro. 
Upon  me  lay  a  dismal  woe, 
A  bonndless,  superhuman  grief, 
That  drew  no  promise  of  relief 
From  any  hope.      Then  I  arose, 
As  one  who  struggles  up  from  blows 
By  unseen  hands ;  and  as  I  stood 
Alone,  I  thought  that  God  was  good, 
To  hide,  in  clouds  and  driving  rain, 
Our  low  world  from  the  angel  train, 
Whose  souls  filled  heroes  when  the  earth 
Was  worthy  of  their  noble  birth. 
By  that  dull  instinct  of  the  mind, 
Which  leads  aright  the  helpless  blind, 
I  struggled  onward,  till  the  dawn 
Across  the  eastern  clouds  had  drawn 
A  narrow  line  of  watery  gray  ; 
And  full  before  my  vision  lay 
The  great  dome's  gaunt  and  naked  bones, 
Beneath  whose  crown  the  nation  thrones 
Her  queenly  person.      On  I  stole, 
With  hanging  head  and  abject  soul, 
Across  the  high  embattled  ridge, 
And  o'er  the  arches  of  the  bridge. 
So  freshly  pricked  my  sharp  disgrace, 
I  feared  to  meet  the  human  face, 
Skulking,  as  any  woman  might, 
Who  'd  lost  her  virtue  in  the  night, 
And  sees  the  dreadful  glare  of  day 
Prepare  to  light  her  homeward  way, 
Alone,  heart-broken,  shamed,  undone, 
I  staggered  into  Washington  ! 

Since  then  long  sluggish  days  have  passed, 
And  on  the  wings  of  every  blast 
Have  come  the  distant  nations'  sneers 


UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE  CENTRE  VIL'LE.    41 

To  tingle  in  our  blushing  ears. 

In  woe  and  ashes,  as  was  meet, 

We  wore  the  penitential  sheet. 

But  now  I  breathe  a  purer  air, 

And  from  the  depths  of  my  despair 

Awaken  to  a  cheering  morn, 

Just  breaking  through  the  night  forlorn, 

A  morn  of  hopeful  victory. 

Awake,  my  countrymen,  with  me  ! 

Redeem  the  honor  which  you  lost, 

With  any  blood,  at  any  cost ! 

I  ask  not  how  the  war  began, 

Nor  how  the  quarrel  branched  and  ran 

To  this  dread  height.      The  wrong  or  right 

Stands  clear  before  God's  faultless  sight. 

I  only  feel  the  shameful  blow, 

I  only  see  the  scornful  foe, 

And  vengeance  burns  in  every  vein 

To  die,  or  wipe  away  the  stain. 

The  war-wise  hero  of  the  West, 

Wearing  his  glories  as  a  crest, 

Of  trophies  gathered  in  your  sight, 

Is  arming  for  the  coming  light. 

Full  well  his  wisdom  apprehends 

The  duty  and  its  mighty  ends  ; 

The  great  occasion  of  the  hour, 

That  never  lay  in  human  power 

Since  over  Yorktown's  tented  plain 

The  red  cross  fell,  nor  rose  again. 

My  humble  pledge  of  faith  I  lay, 

Dear  comrade  of  my  school-boy  day, 

Before  thee,  in  the  nation's  view, 

And  if  thy  prophet  prove  untrue, 

And  from  our  country's  grasp  be  thrown 

The  sceptre  and  the  starry  crown, 

And  thou,  and  all  thy  marshalled  host 

Be  baffled,  and  in  ruin  lost ; 


42   UPON  THE  HILL  BEFORE   CENTREVILLE. 

Oh,  let  me  not  outlive  the  blow 
That  seals  my  country's  overthrow  ! 
And,  lest  this  woeful  end  come  true, 
Men  of  the  North,  I  turn  to  you. 
Display  your  vaunted  flag  once  more, 
Southward  your  eager  columns  pour ! 
Sound  trump,  and  fife,  and  rallying  drum ; 
From  every  hill  and  valley  come. 
Old  men,  yield  up  your  treasured  gold ! 
Can  liberty  be  priced  and  sold  ? 
Fair  matrons,  maids,  and  tender  brides, 
Gird  weapons  to  your  lovers'  sides  ; 
And,  though  your  hearts  break  at  the  deed, 
Give  them  your  blessing  and  God  speed  ; 
Then  point  them  to  the  field  of  flame, 
With  words  like  those  of  Sparta's  dame ; 
And  when  the  ranks  are  full  and  strong, 
And  the  whole  army  moves  along, 
A  vast  result  of  care  and  skill, 
Obedient  to  the  master  will ; 
And  your  young  hero  draws  the  sword, 
And  gives  the  last  commanding  word 
That  hurls  your  strength  upon  the  foe  — 
Oh,  let  them  need  no  second  blow  ! 
Strike,  as  your  fathers'  struck  of  old, 
Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 
Through  pain,  disaster,  and  defeat ; 
Through  marches  tracked  with  bloody  feet ; 
Through  every  ill  that  could  befall 
The  holy  cause  that  bound  them  all ! 
Strike  as  they  struck  for  liberty ! 
Strike  as  they  struck  to  make  you  free ! 
Strike  for  the  crown  of  victory  ! 


THE  RUN  FROM  MANASSAS  JUNCTION.    43 


THE  RUN  FROM  MANASSAS  JUNCTION. 

YANKEE  DOODLE  went  to  war, 

On  his  little  pony, 
What  did  he  go  fighting  for, 

Everlasting  goney ! 
Yankee  Doodle  was  a  chap 

Who  bragged  and  swore  tarnation, 
He  stuck  a  feather  in  his  cap, 

And  called  it  Federation. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Yankee  Doodle,  he  went  forth 

To  conquer  the  seceders, 
All  the  journals  of  the  North, 

In  most  ferocious  leaders, 
Breathing  slaughter,  fire  and  smoke, 

Especially  the  latter, 
His  rage  and  fury  to  provoke, 

And  vanity  to  Hatter. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Yankee  Doodle,  having  floored 

His  separated  brothers, 
He  reckoned  his  victorious  sword 

Would  turn  against  us  others, 
Secession  first  he  would  put  down, 

Wholly  and  forever; 
And  afterward,  from  Britain's  crown, 

He  Canada  would  sever. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

England  offering  neutral  sauce 

To  goose  as  well  as  gander, 
Was  what  made  Yankee  Doodle  cross, 

And  did  inflame  his  dander. 


44    THE  RUN  FROM  MAN  ASS  AS  JUNCTION. 

As  though  with  choler  drunk  he  fumed, 
And  threatened  vengeance  martial, 

Because  Old  England  had  presumed 
To  steer  a  course  impartial. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Yankee  Doodle  bore  in  mind, 

When  warfare  England  harassed, 
How  he,  unfriendly  and  unkind, 

Beset  her  and  embarrassed ; 
He  put  himself  in  England's  place, 

And  thought  this  injured  nation 
Must  view  his  trouble  with  a  base 

Vindictive  exultation. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

We  for  North  and  South  alike 

Entertain  affection  ; 
These  for  negro  slavery  strike  ; 

Those  for  forced  protection. 
Yankee  Doodle  is  the  pot, 

Southerner  the  kettle  ; 
Equal  morally,  if  not 

Men  of  equal  mettle.* 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Yankee  Doodle,  near  Bull  Run 

Met  his  adversary, 
First  he  thought  the  fight  he  'd  won, 

*  And  so  slavery  and  a  high  tariff  are  now  equal  morally  in  John 
Bull's  eyes !  The  admission  of  what  the  whole  world  more  than 
suspected  has  come  at  last.  Its  candor,  not  to  say  effrontery, 
gives  it  some  claim  upon  admiration.  And  is  it  thus  that  Britain 
stands  confessed  before  us!  Britain  indeed;  but,  alas,  how  much 
changed  from  that  Britain  that  decked  herself  in  the  spoils  of 
slavery,  and  hurled  the  fires  of  consuming  vengeance  upon  the 
inhuman  fleets!  —  See  Earl  Russell's  Dispatch  to  Lord  Lyons  upon 
the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation. 


THE  RUN  FROM  MANASSAS  JUNCTION.      45 

Fact  proved  quite  contrary. 
Panic-struck  he  fled,  with  speed 

Of  lightning  glib  with  unction, 
Of  slippery  grease,  in  full  stampede, 

From  famed  Manassas  Junction. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

As  he  bolted,  noways  slow, 

Yankee  Doodle  hallooed, 
"  We  are  whipped  !  "  and  fled,  although 

No  pursuer  followed. 
Sword  and  gun  right  slick  he  threw 

Both  away  together, 
In  his  cap,  to  public  view, 

Showing  the  white  feather. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Yankee  Doodle,  Doodle,  do, 

Whither  are  you  flying  ? 
"  A  cocked  hat  we  'vc  been  licked  into, 

And  knocked  to  Hades,"  crying  ? 
Well,  to  Canada,  sir-ree, 

Now  that,  by  secession, 
I  am  driven  up  a  tree, 

To  seize  that  there  possession. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Yankee  Doodle,  be  content, 

You  've  had  a  lenient  whipping  ; 
Court  not  further  punishment 

By  enterprise  of  stripping 
Those  neighbors,  whom,  if  you  assail, 

They  '11  surely  whip  you  hollow  ; 
Moreover,  when  you  've  turned  your  tail, 

Won't  hesitate  to  follow. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

Londwi  Punch. 


46  THE  BRIER-WOOD  PIPE. 

THE  BRIER-WOOD  PIPE. 

BY    CIIAULES   DAWSON   SHAXLY. 

HA  !     Bully  for  me  *  again,  when  my  turn  for  picket  is 

over ; 
And  now  for  a  smoke,  as  I  lie,  with  the  moonlight  in  the 

clover. 

My  pipe  it  is  only  a  knot  from  the  root  of  the  brier-wood 

tree ; 
But  it  turns  my  heart  to  the  northward :    Harry,  give  it 

to  me. 

And  I  'm  but  a  rough  at  best,  bred  up  to  the  row  and  the 

riot, 
But  a  softness  comes  o'er  my  heart  when  all  are  asleep 

and  quiet. 

For  many  a  time  in  the  night  strange  things  appear  to 

my  eye, 
As  the  breath  from  my  brier-Avood  pipe  sails  up  between 

me  and  the  sky. 

Last  night  a  beautiful  spirit  arose  with  the  wisping  smoke  ; 
O,  I  shook,  for  my  heart  felt  good,  as  it  spread  out  its 
hands  and  spoke, 

Saying,  "  I  am  the  soul  of  the  brier :  we  grew  at  the 

root  of  a  tree 
Where  lovers  would  come  in  the  twilight,  —  two  ever,  for 

company. 

*  The  use  of  "bully,"  as  an  expression  of  encouragement  and 
approval  among  our  roughs  and  Bowery  boys,  and  boys  not  Bow 
ery,  is  no  novelty  in  the  language.  The  word  is  found  similarly 
used  in  the  dramatists  of  the  Elizabethan  period,  and  those  of  the 
Restoration. 


THE  BRIER-WOOD  PIPE. 


47 


•'  Where  lovers  would  come  in  the  morning,  —  ever  but 

two,  together ; 
When  the  flowers  were  full  in  their  blow,  the  birds  in 

their  song  and  feather. 

"  Where  lovers  would  come  in  the  noontime  loitering,  — 

never  but  two, 
Looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  like  the  pigeons  that  kiss 

and  coo. 

"  And  O  !  the  honeyed  words  thai  came  when  the  lips 

were  parted, 
And  the  passion  that  glowed  in  eyes,  and  the  lightning 

looks  that  darted ! 

"  Enough,  —  Love  dwells  in  the  pipe :  so  ever  it   glows 

with  fire. 
I  am  the  soul  of  the  bush,  and  the  spirits  call  me  Sweet- 

Brier." 

That 's  what  the  Brier-wood  said,  as  nigh  as  my  tongue 

can  tell, 
And  the  words  went  straight  to  my  heart,  like  the  stroke 

of  the  fire-bell. 

To-night    I    lie    in    the    clover,   watching    the    blossomy 

smoke ; 
I  'm  glad  the  boys  are  asleep,  for  I  'in  not  in  the  humor 

to  joke. 

I  lie  in  the  hefty  clover :  *  between  me  and  the  waning 

moon 
The  smoke  from  my  pipe  arises :  my  heart  will  be  quiet 

soon. 

*  I  do  not  know  what  the  author  means  by  "hefty"  clover. 
Hardly,  having  "  heft,"  or  weight. 


48  THE  BRIER-WOOD  PIPE. 

My  thoughts  are  back  in  the  city ;  I  'm  everything  I  've 
been; 

I  hear  the  bell  from  the  tower ;  I  run  with  the  swift  ma 
chine. 

I  see  the   red-shirts   crowding   around   the   engine-house 

door; 
The  foreman's  hail   through  the  trumpet   comes   with   a 

sullen  roar. 

The  reel  in  the  Bowery  dance-house,  the  row  in  the  beer 

saloon, 
Where  I  put  in  my  licks  at  Big  Paul,  —  come  between 

me  and  the  moon. 

I  hear  the  drum  and  the  bugle,  the  tramp  of  the  cow- 
skin  boots ; 

We  are  marching  to  the  Capital,  —  the  Fire-Zouave  re 
cruits. 

White  handkerchiefs  wave  before  me.     O  !  but  the  sight 

is  pretty 
On  the  white   marble  steps,  as  we  march   through   the 

heart  of  the  city. 

Bright  eyes   and   clasping  arms,  and  lips  that  bring   us 

good  hap, 
And  the  splendid  lady  that  gave  me  the  havelock  for  my 

cap. 

O !  up  from   my  pipe-cloud  rises,  between  me  and  the 

moon, 
A  beautiful  white-robed  lady :    my  heart  will   be   quiet 

soon. 

The  lovely  golden-haired  lady  ever  in  dreams  I  see, 
Who  gave  me  the  snow-white  havelock ;  but  what  does 
she  care  for  me  ? 


JONATHAN  TO    JOHN. 


49 


Look  at  my  grimy  features  :  mountains  between  us  stand ; 
I  with  my  sledge-hammer  knuckles,  she  with  her  jewelled 
hand. 

What  care  I  ?     The  day  that  is  dawning  may  see   me 

when  all  is  over, 
With  the  red  stream  of  my  life-blood  staining  the  hefty 

clover. 

Hark  !  the  reveille  sounding  out  on  the  morning  air  ! 
Devils   are   we  for   the   battle :  —  Will   there   be   angels 
there  V 

Kiss  me  again,  Sweet-Brier ;   the  touch   of  your  lips  to 

mine 
Brings   back   the  white-robed    lady,   with   hair   like   the 

golden  wine. 

Vanity  Fair,  July  6,  18G1. 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

A  YANKEE   IDYL. 
BY   JAMES   RUSSELL,  LOWELL. 

IT  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full. 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull  ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 

We  kno  it  now,"  sez  he  ; 
"  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me  !  " 
4 


50  JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

Blood  an't  so  cool  as  ink,  John  : 

It  's  likely  you  'd  ha'  wrote, 
An'  stopped  a  spell  to  think,  John, 
Arter  they  'd  cut  your  throat ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 

He  'd  skurce  ha'  stopped,"  sez  he, 
"  To  mind  his  p's  and  q's  ef  that  weasan' 
Hed  belonged  to  ole  J.  B., 
Instid  o'  you  an'  me  !  " 

Ef  /  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 

I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 
"  Thet,  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wall  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  win  —  ditto,  tails  ? 
UJ.  B."  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails.* 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
(I  'm  good  at  thet,)  "  sez  he, 
"  Thet  sauce  for  goose  an't^'es^  the  juice 

*  Mr.  Biglow's  memory  (for  we  suppose  Hosea  loquitur)  did  not 
fail,  as  may  be  seen  by  the  following  extract  from  the  London  Times' 
first  article  about  the  Trent  affair,  October  28th,  1801 :  —  "  Unwel 
come  as  the  truth  may  be,  it  is  nevertheless  a  truth  that  we  have  our 
selves  established  a  system  of  international  law  which  now  tells  against 
us.  In  high-handed  and  almost  despotic  manner  we  have  in  former 
days  claimed  privileges  over  neutrals  which  have  at  different  times 
banded  all  the  maritime  powers  of  the  world  against  us.  We  have 
insisted  upon  stopping  ships  of  war  of  neutral  nations  and  taking 
British  subjects  out  of  them." 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN.  51 

For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  than  you  or  me !  " 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrong,  John, 

You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss  : 
Britanny's  trident-prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  u  I  guess, 

Though  physic's  good,"  sez  he, 
"  It  does  n't  foller  that  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  '  /.  B.,' 
Put  up  by  you  and  me  !  " 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John : 

You  must  n't  take  it  hard 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It 's  jest  your  own  back  yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 

Ef  ihefs  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"  The  fencin'-stuff  '11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !  " 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor,  when  it  meant 

You  did  n't  care  a  fig,  John, 

But  just  for  ten  per  cent  f 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
He  's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he  : 
"  When  all  is  done,  its  number  one 
Thet  's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! " 


52    A  NEW  SONG  TO  AN  OLD  TUNE. 


A  NEW  SONG  TO  AN  OLD  TUNE. 

JOHN  BULL,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
You  acted  very  much  as  now 

You  act  about  the  Trent. 
You  stole  my  bonny  sailors,  John, 

My  bonny  ships  also, 
You  're  aye  the  same  fierce  beast  to  me, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo ! 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

Since  we  were  linked  together, 
Full  many  a  jolly  fight,  John, 

We  've  had  with  one  another. 
Now  must  we  fight  again,  John  ? 

Then  at  it  let  us  go ! 
And  God  will  help  the  honest  heart, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

A  century  has  gone  by, 
Since  you  called  me  your  slave,  John, 

Since  I  at  you  let  fly. 
You  want  to  fight  it  out  again  — 

That  war  of  waste  and  woe ; 
You  '11  find  me  much  the  same  old  coon, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

If  lying  loons  have  told 
That  I  have  lost  my  pluck,  John, 

And  fight  not  as  of  old ; 
You  'd  better  not  believe  it,  John, 

Nor  scorn  your  ancient  foe  ; 


TO  ENGLISHMEN.  53 

For  I  've  seen  weaker  days  than  this, 
John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo. 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  John, 

Hear  this  my  language  plain  : 
I  never  smote  you  unprovoked, 

I  never  smote  in  vain. 
If  you  want  peace,  peace  let  it  be  ! 

If  war,  be  pleased  to  know, 
Shots  in  my  locker  yet  remain, 

John  Bull,  Esquire,  my  jo  ! 


TO    ENGLISHMEN. 

BY    JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

You  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave, 

We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option,  save 

To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You  scoffed  our  plea.     "  Mere  lack  of  will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us  ; 
We  showed  our  Free-State  records ;  still 
You  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 
Slave  haters  and  slave  holders. 

We  struck  at  Slavery  ;  to  the  verge 

Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 
Lo !  —  presto,  change  !  its  claims  you  urge, 
Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our  Northern  palrus-  for  conscience'  sake  : 


54  TO  ENGLISHMEN. 

To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 
With  "  walloping  the  nigger  !  " 

O  Englishmen  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers ! 

We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede ; 

And  Shakspeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"  Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 
The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wave 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us ; 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave 
The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while  for  one  unshared  by  each 
We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bow  the  heart,  if  not  the  knee, 

To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her ! 
We  praised  you  when  your  slaves  went  free : 
We  seek  to  unchain  ours.      Will  ye 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor  ? 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 
The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 
A-muck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 


THE  "TIMES"   ON  AMERICAN  AFFAIRS.     55 

O  black  disgrace !     O  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on ! 

Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 

And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 

The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon  ! 


THE   LONDON   "TIMES"    ON   AMERICAN 
AFFAIRS. 

JOHN  BULL  vos  a-valkin'  his  parlor  von  day, 
Ha-fixin'  the  vorld  wery  much  'is  hown  vay, 
Ven  igstrawnary  news  cum  from  hover  the  se-a, 
Habout  the  great  country  vot  brags  it  is  free. 

Hand  these  vos  the  tidins  this  news  it  did  tell, 
That  great  Yankee  Doodle  vos  going  to  —  veil, 
That  ee  vos  a-volloped  by  Jefferson  D., 
Hand  no  longer  "  some  punkins  "  vos  likely  to  be. 

John  Bull,  slyly  vinkin',  then  said  hunto  me : 
"  My  dear  Times,  my  hold  covey,  go  pitch  hinto  ee  ; 
Let  us  vollop  great  Doodle  now  ven  'e  is  down  ; 
Hif  ve  vollops  him  veil,  ve  vill  '  do  'im  up  brown.' 

"  Ts  long-legged  boots  hat  my  'ed  'e  'as  'urled, 
I  'd  raither  not  see  'em  a-trampin'  the  vorld  ; 
Hand  I  howe  him  a  grudge  for  'is  conduct  so  wile, 
In  himportin'  shillalahs  from  Erin's  green  hile. 

"  I  knows  Jefferson  D.  is  a  rascally  chap, 
Who  goes  hin  for  cribbin'  the  Guvurnment  pap  ; 
That  Hexeter  'All  may  be  down  upon  me, 
But  as  Jeff,  'as  the  cotton,  I  '11  cotton  to  ee. 

"  I  cares  for  the  blacks  not  a  drat  more  nor  ee, 
Though  on  principle  I  goes  for  settin'  'em  free  ; 


56     THE  "TIMES"    ON  AMERICAN  AFFAIRS. 

But  hinterest,  my  cove,  we  must  look  h after  now, 
Unless  principle  yields,  it  are  poor  anyhow." 

So  spoke  Johnny  Bull,  so  ee  spake  hunto  me, 
Hand  I  'inted  slyly  to  Jefferson  D., 
Who,  very  much  pleased,  rubbed  'is  'ands  in  'is  joy, 
Hand  exclaimed :    "  You  're  the  man  for  my  money, 
old  boy. 

"  Go  in,  Johnny  Times  !  I  will  feather  your  nest ; 
Never  mind  if  you  soil  it,  'tis  foul  at  the  best ; 
Strange  guests  have  been  thar,  but  my  cotton  is  clean, 
And  a  cargo  is  yourn,  if  you  manage  it  keen." 

So  I  pitched  hinto  Doodle  like  a  thousan'  of  brick,  — 
May'ap  it  warn't  proper  to  do  it  —  on  tick, 
But  John  Bull  is  almighty,  he  '11  see  I  am  paid, 
And  my  cargo  of  cotton  will  break  the  blockade. 

PART  SECOND. 

So  Bull  ee  vent  bin  the  blockade  for  to  bust ; 
The  Christians  they  cried,  and  the  sinners  they  cuss'd ; 
There  vos  blowin',  and  blusterin',  and  mighty  parade, 
And  hall  to  get  ready  to  break  the  blockade. 

Yen  hall  hof  a  sudden  it  come  in  the  'ed 
Hof  a  prudent  hold  covey,  who  up  and  'e  said : 
"  Hit 's  bad  to  vant  cotton,  but  worser  by  far, 
His  the  sufferin'  hand  misery  you  '11  make  by  a  war. 

"  There  'is  cotton  in  Hingy,  Peru,  and  Assam, 
Guayaquil  and  Jamaica,  Canton,  Surinam  ; 
'Arf  a  loaf,  or  'arf  cotton,  tight  papers  hi  call, 
But  a  'ole  var  hentire  his  the  devil  and  hall." 

So  he  sent  not  'is  vessel  hacross  the  broad  sea, 
Vich  vos  hawful  'ard  lines  for  poor  Jefferson  D., 


GOD  SAVE  JOHN  BULL.  57 

Hand  wrote  hunto  Doodle,  "  'Old  hon,  and  be  true ! " 
And  Jonathan  hanswered  Bull,  "  Bully  for  you  ! " 

SEQUEL  AFTER-TIMES. 

Has  Bull  vos  valking  in  London  haround, 
'E  found  the  Times  lyin'  hupon  the  cold  ground, 
With  a  big  bale  hof  cotton  right  hover  's  side ; 
Says  Bull,  "  Hi  perceive  't  was  by  cotton  he  died  ! " 


GOD  SAVE  JOHN  BULL* 

GOD  save  me,  great  John  Bull ! 
Long  keep  my  pocket  full ! 

God  save  John  Bull ! 
Ever  victorious, 
Haughty,  vain-glorious, 
Snobbish,  censorious, 

God  save  John  Bull 

O  Lords,  our  gods,  arise  ! 
Tax  all  our  enemies, 

Make  tariffs  fall ! 
Confound  French  politics, 
Frustrate  all  Russian  tricks, 
Get  Yankees  in  a  "  fix," 

God  "  bless  "  them  all  !     \_Sinistra  manu  ] 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store, 
On  me,  me  only  pour,  — 
Me,  great  John  Bull ! 

*  It  has  been  thought  that  should  a  time  arrive  when  God  save 
the  King  cannot  be  sung  in  Great  Britain,  because,  that  peculiar 
institution  having  been  found  superfluous  and  expensive,  there 
will  be  no  king  to  be  saved,  the  old  national  hymn  will  be  altered 
to  something  like  the  lines  above  given. 


58  THE   POTOMAC -mi. 

Maintain  oppressive  laws, 
Frown  down  the  poor  man's  cause ! 
So  sing  with  heart  and  voice, 
I,  great  John  Bull ! 


THE  POTOMAC  — 1861. 

THE  light  of  stars  shook  through  the  trees, 
The  large-eyed  moon  looked  o'er  the  lawn, 

0  day,  I  said,  delay  thy  dawn  ! 
A  little  whisper  stirred  the  breeze. 

A  frightened  bird  thrilled  through  the  place, 
A  dead  leaf  fell  at  my  still  feet, 
And  my  wild  heart,  oh  loud  it  beat ! 

He  read  my  answer  in  my  face. 

All  night  across  the  moonlit  land, 

Far  southward,  where  the  river  runs, 

1  heard  the  booming  of  their  guns, 
While  in  his  own  he  held  my  hand. 

Trust  God,  oh  little  heart !  he  said, 
And  galloped  forth  into  the  light ; 
That  day  he  rode  into  the  fight, 

And  there  they  shot  my  lover  dead. 

My  stricken  soul  rose  from  the  dust, 

And  pushed  rebellious  hands  toward  God  ; 
I  will  not  to  the  earth  be  trod, 

Thou  art  nor  wise,  nor  good,  nor  just ! 

And  thus  it  was  not  sanctified  — 
My  sorrow  —  and  when  I  did  pray : 


59 


THE  POTOMAC—  1861. 

My  end,  O  God  !  no  more  delay, 
Now  take  me  to  him,  Lord,  I  cried. 

One  night  I  dreamed,  and  he  stood  by, 
Clothed,  angel-wise,  in  love  and  light. 
I  durst  not  touch  his  robes  of  white, 

He  chid  me  with  his  pitying  eye. 

Only  that  look,  nor  any  word, 

And  I  had  learned,  not  all  too  late, 
Had  learned  to  live,  and  work,  and  wait, 

And  my  dead  faith  to  life  was  stirred. 

Oh  well  I  knew  that  not  for  me 

Were  robe  of  white,  the  palm,  the  crown, 
Till  I  more  worthy  them  had  grown, 

Had  earned,  like  him,  euthanasy ! 

Nor  sitting  still  with  folded  palms, 

To  nurse  my  grief  through  the  long  years, 
But  reading  through  my  bitter  tears 

Strange  mockery  in  the  eternal  psalms ; 

In  some  far  circle  from  the  throne 

Content  if  I,  at  last,  may  stand, 

He  holding  in  his  own  my  hand, 
And  our  two  voices  making  one  — 

One  voice  of  praise,  prevailing  thence 

Unto  the  Lamb  upon  the  Hill  — 

The  far-off  memory  of  ill, 
Crowning  the  long,  long  recompense. 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


6o    "E1N'  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER   GOTT.' 
«EIN'  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER  GOTT." 

(Luther's  Hymn.) 

BY   JOHN    G.    WHITT1ER. 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace  blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire  ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared, 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 

East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  : 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel  ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the -men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :   SLAVERY  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes, 
In  strife  unworthy  freemen  ; 


"EIN'FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER   GOTT."    6 1 

God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
O  North  and  South  ! 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
"  Let  Slavery  die  ! " 
And  Union  find  in  freedom  ? 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  ? 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain, 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  aim 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm, 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud, 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  Avar-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 

Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  The  Curse, 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven ! 


62  JEFF  DAVIS. 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But,  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace, 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure,  and  wait,  and  labor  ! 


JEFF   DAVIS, 

ON  HIS  ELECTION  AS  PRESIDENT  FOR  SIX  YEARS.* 
BY  "  SIGMA". 

SATAN  was  chained  a  thousand  years, 

We  learn  from  Revelation  — 
That  he  might  not,  as  it  appears, 

Longer  "deceive  the  nation." 
'T  is  hard  to  say,  between  the  two, 

Which  is  the  greater  evil, 
Six  years  of  liberty,  for  you  — 

A  thousand  for  the  devil ! 

*  November  9, 1861. 


JEFF  DAVIS.  63 

*T  is  passing  strange,  if  you  Ve  no  fears, 
Of  being  hanged  within  six  years  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  rebels'  ears 

Would  not  one  half  repay 
The  widows'  and  the  orphans'  tears, 

Shed  for  the  slain  to-day  : 
The  blood  of  all  those  gallant  braves, 

Whom  Southern  traitors  slew, 
Cries  sternly,  from  their  loyal  graves, 

For  vengeance  upon  you ; 
And  if  you  're  not  prepared  to  die 
The  death  of  Hainan,  fly,  Jeff,  fly ! 

Fly,  traitor,  to  some  lonely  niehe, 

Far,  far  beyond  the  billow  ; 
Thy  grave  an  ill-constructed  ditch  — 

Thy  sexton  General  Pillow. 
There  may  you  turn  to  rottenness, 

By  mortal  unannoyed, 
Your  ashes  undisturbed,  unless 

Your  grave  is  known  by  Floyd. 
He  '11  surely  trouble  your  repose, 
And  come  to  steal  your  burial-clothes. 


Pause  for  an  instant,  loyal  reader. 

Here  lies  Jeff,  the  great  seceder. 

Above,  he  always  lied,  you  know, 

And  now  the  traitor  lies  below. 

His  bow  was  furnished  with  two  strings, 

He  flattered  crowds,  and  fawned  on  kings ; 

Repaid  his  country's  care  with  evil, 

And  prayed  to  God,  and  served  the  devil. 

The  South  could  whip  the  Yankee  nation, 

So  he  proposed  humiliation  ! 

Their  blessings  were  so  everlasting, 


64  YANKEE  PRIDE. 

'T  was  just  the  time  for  prayer  and  fasting! 
The  record  may  be  searched  in  vain, 
From  West-Point  Benedict  to  Cain, 
To  find  a  more  atrocious  knave, 
Unless  in  Caesar  Borgia's  grave. 


YANKEE  PRIDE. 

BY   BKIG.-GEXERAL  LANDER. 

On  hearing  that  the  Confederate  troops  had  said  that  "  Fewer 
of  the  Massachusetts  officers  would  have  been  killed  if  they  had 
not  been  too  proud  to  surrender." 

AY,  deem  us  proud  !  for  we  are  more 
Than  proud  of  all  our  mighty  dead  ; 

Proud  of  the  bleak  and  rock-bound  shore 
A  crowned  oppressor  cannot  tread. 

Proud  of  each  rock  and  wood  and  glen, 

Of  every  river,  lake,  and  plain  ; 
Proud  of  the  calm  and  earnest  men 

Who  claim  the  right  and  will  to  reign. 

Proud  of  the  men  who  gave  us  birth, 
Who  battled  with  the  stormy  wave, 

To  sweep  the  red  man  from  the  earth, 
And  build  their  homes  upon  his  grave. 

Proud  of  the  holy  summer  morn, 
They  traced  in  blood  upon  its  sod  ; 

The  rights  of  freemen  yet  unborn, 

Proud  of  their  language  and  their  God. 

Proud,  that  beneath  our  proudest  dome, 
And  round  the  cottage-cradled  hearth, 

There  is  a  welcome  and  a  home 
For  every  stricken  race  on  earth. 


PACIFIC   MACARONICS.  65 

Proud  that  yon  slowly  sinking  sun 

Saw  drowning  lips  grow  white  in  prayer, 

O'er  such  brief  acts  of  duty  done 
As  honor  gathers  from  despair. 

Pride,  —  't  is  our  watchword,  "  Clear  the  boats  !  " 
"  Holmes,  Putnam,  Bartlett,  Pierson  —  here  !  " 

And  while  this  crazy  wherry  floats, 

"  Let 's  save  our  wounded  ! "  cries  Revere. 

Old  State  —  some  souls  are  rudely  sped  — 

This  record  for  thy  Twentieth  corps, 
Imprisoned,  wounded,  dying,  dead, 

It  only  asks,  "  Has  Sparta  more  ?  " 

Boston  Post,  Nov.  23, 1861. 


PACIFIC  MACARONICS. 

SEWARD,  qui  est  Rerum  cantor 

Publicarum,  atque  Lincoln, 
Vir  excelsior,  mitigantur — 

A  delightful  thing  to  think  on. 

Blatat  Plebs  Americana, 

Quite  impossible  to  bridle. 
Nihil  refert ;  nnvis  cana 

Brings  back  Mason  atque  Slidell. 

Scribit  nunc  amoene  Russell ; 

Lastuslapis*  claudit  fiscum  ; 
Nunc  finitur  omnis  bustle. 

Slidell  —  Mason  —  pax  vobiscum  ! 

London  Press. 

*  The  scholiast  sutr<iests  —  Gladstone. 


66  JOHN  BROWNS  SONG. 


JOHN  BROWN'S  SONG.* 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave  ; 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave  ; 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave  ; 
His  soul  is  marching  on  ! 

CHORUS. 

Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  !      Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  halle  —  hallelujah  ! 

His  soul  is  marching  on  ! 

He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord ! 
He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord  ! 
He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord ! 
His  soul  is  inarching  on ! 

CHORUS. 

Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  !      Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  halle  —  hallelujah  ! 

His  soul  is  marching  on  ! 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back  ! 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back  ! 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back  ! 
His  soul  is  marching  on  ! 


*  The  origin  of  this  senseless  farrago  —  as  senseless  as  the 
equally  popular  "  Lillibulero"  of  the  times  of  the  great  civil  com 
motion  in  England  —  is,  I  believe,  quite  unknown.  But  sung  to  a 
degraded  and  jiggish  form  of  a  grand  and  simple  old  air,  it  was  a 
great  favorite  in  the  early  part  of  the  war.  It  was  heard  every 
where  in  the  streets;  regiments  marched  to  it,  and  the  air  had  its 
place  in  the  programme  of  every  barrel-organ  grinder.  In  fact  no 
song  was  sung  so  much  during  the  rebellion.  Its  popularity  was 
doubtless  due  to  its  presentation  of  a  single  idea,  and  in  great 
measure  to  the  very  marked  rhythm  of  the  air  to  which  it  was 
adapted,  or  rather,  which  had  been  adapted  to  it. 


JOHN  BROWN'S  SONG.  67 

CHOKUS. 

Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  !       Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  halle  —  hallelujah  ! 

His  soul  is  marching  on  ! 

His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way ; 
His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way ; 
His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way ; 
As  they  go  marching  on  ! 

CHORUS. 

Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  !      Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  halle  —  hallelujah  ! 

As  they  go  marching  on  I 

They  will  hang  Jeff.  Davis  to  a  tree ! 
They  will  hang  Jeff.  Davis  to  a  tree ! 
They  will  hang  Jeff.  Davis  to  a  tree ! 
As  they  march  along  ! 

CHORUS. 

Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  !       Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah  1 
Glory,  halle  —  hallelujah  ! 
As  they  march  along  ! 

Now,  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union  ! 
Now,  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union  ! 
Now,  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union  ! 
As  we  are  marching  on ! 


Glory,    halle — hallelujah!       Glory,    halle  —  hallelujah! 
Glory,  halle  —  hallelujah  ! 

Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  Hurrah ! 


68        BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE   REPUBLIC. 
BATTLE-HYMN    OF    THE    REPUBLIC. 

BY    MKS.    JULIA   WARD    HOWE. 

MINE    eyes   have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord  : 
He  is  trampling   out  the  vintage  where  the   grapes   of 

wrath  are  stored ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift 

sword : 

His  truth  is  inarching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps ; 
I  have  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace 

shall  deal ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his 

heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 
retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment- 
seat  : 

Oh  !  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  !  be  jubilant,  my  feet  ! 
Our  God  is  inarching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  borne  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me ; 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 


THE  NATION'S   HYMN.  69 


THE    NATION'S    HYMN. 

OUR  past  is  bright  and  grand 
In  the  purple  tints  of  time ; 
And  the  present  of  our  land, 

Points  to  glories  more  sublime. 
For  our  destiny  is  won  ; 

And  't  is  ours  to  lead  the  van, 
Of  the  nations  marching  on, 
Of  the  moving  hosts  of  man ! 
Yes,  the  Starry  Flag  alone, 

Shall  wave  above  the  van, 
Of  the  nations  sweeping  on, 
Of  the  moving  hosts  of  man ! 

We  are  sprung  from  noble  sires, 

As  were  ever  sung  in  song ; 
We  are  bold  with  Freedom's  fires, 

We  are  rich,  and  wise,  and  strong. 
On  us  are  freely  showered 

The  gifts  of  every  clime, 

And  we  're  the  richest  dowered 

Of  all  the  heirs  of  Time  ! 

Brothers  then,  in  Union,  strong, 

We  shall  ever  lead  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along, 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  man ! 

We  are  brothers ;  and  we  know 

That  our  Union  is  a  tower, 
When  the  fiercest  whirlwinds  blow, 

And  the  darkest  tempests  lower ! 
We  shall  sweep  the  land  and  sea, 

While  we  march,  in  Union,  great, 


70  THE  NATION'S  HYMN. 

Thirty  millions  of  the  free 
With  the  steady  step  of  fate  ! 

Brothers  then,  in  Union,  strong, 

Let  us  ever  lead  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along, 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  man ! 

See  our  prairies,  sky-surrounded ! 

See  our  sunlit  mountain  chains  ! 
See  our  waving  woods,  unbounded, 

And  our  cities  on  the  plains ! 
See  the  oceans  kiss  our  strand, 

Oceans  stretched  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
See  our  mighty  lakes  expand, 
And  our  giant  rivers  roll ! 

Such  a  land,  and  such  alone, 

Should  be  leader  of  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  man ! 

Yes,  the  spirit  of  our  land, 

The  young  giant  of  the  West, 
With  the  waters  in  his  hand, 

With  the  forests  for  his  crest,  — 
To  our  hearts'  quick,  proud  pulsations, 

To  our  shouts  that  still  increase, 
Shall  yet  lead  on  the  nations, 
To  their  brotherhood  of  peace  ! 

Yes,  Columbia,  great  and  strong, 

Shall  forever  lead  the  van, 
As  the  nations  sweep  along, 
To  fulfil  the  hopes  of  man  ! 


E  PLURIDUS   UNUM."  71 


«E   PLURIBUS   UNUM." 

BY   THE   REV.   JOHN   PIEKPONT. 

AIR  —  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner" 

I. 

THE  harp  of  the  minstrel  with  melody  rings, 

When  the  Muses  have  taught  him  to   touch  and  to 

tune  it ; 

And  although  it  may  have  a  full  octave  of  strings, 
To  both  maker  and  minstrel  the  harp  is  a  unit. 
So,  the  power  that  creates 
Our  Republic  of  States, 
To  harmony  tunes  them  at  different  dates ; 
And,  many  or  few,  when  the  Union  is  done, 
Be  they  thirteen  or  thirty,  the  nation  is  one. 

ii. 

The  science  that  measures  and  numbers  the  spheres, 

And  has  done  so  since  first  the  Chaldean  began  it, 
Now  and  then,  as  she  counts  them,  and  measures  their 

years, 

Brings  into  our  system  and  names  a  new  planet. 
Yet  the  old  and  new  stars, 
Venus,  Neptune,  and  Mars, 
As  they  drive  round  the  sun  their  invisible  cars, 
Whether  faster  or  slower  their  races  are  run, 
Are  "  E  Pluribus  Unum  "  —  of  many  made  one. 

in. 
Of  those  federate  spheres,  should  but  one  fly  the  track, 

Or  with  others  conspire  for  a  general  dispersion, 
By  the  great  central  orb  they  would  all  be  brought  back, 

And  held,  each  in  its  place,  by  a  wholesome  "  coercion." 


72         UNITED  STATES  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

Were  one  daughter  of  light 

Indulged  in  her  flight, 

They  might  all  be  engulfed  by  Old  Chaos  and  Night ; 
So  must  none  of  our  sisters  be  suffered  to  run, 
For,  "  E  Pluribus  Unum,"  —  We  all  go,  if  one. 

IV. 

Let  the  Demon  of  Discord  our  melody  mar, 

Or  Treason's  red  hand  rend  our  system  asunder, 
Break  one  string  from  our  harp,  or  extinguish  one  star, 
The    whole    system's    ablaze    with    its    lightning    and 
thunder. 

Let  that  discord  be  hushed  ! 
Let  the  traitors  be  crushed, 

Though  "  Legion  "  their  name,  all  with  victory  flushed  ; 
For  aye  must  our  motto  stand,  fronting  the  sun, 
"E  Pluribus  Unum" — The  many  are  one. 


UNITED  STATES  NATIONAL  HYMN,  L.  M.* 
TUNE  —  Yarmouth. 

BY   JONATHAN . 


GOD  bless  United  States  ;  each  one 
Has  government,  the  people's  own, 
The  people  rule,  their  rulers  are 
Elected  servants,  to  take  care 

*  The  above  hymn,  written  to  the  old  Long  Metre  Yarmouth, 
was,  like  the  four  which  precede  it,  among  the  twelve  hundred 
sent  in  to  the  committee  appointed  at  the  beginning  of  the  civil 
war,  for  the  somewhat  absurd  purpose  of  obtaining  a  National 
Hymn,  —  as  if  that  could  be  written  to  order.  The  author's  name 


UNITED  STATES  NATIONAL  HYMN.  73 

Of  what  is  for  the  public  good ; 
And  the  best  men  be  chosen  should  ; 
And  often  changed,  that  surely  we 
May  prosper,  and  be  ever  free. 


Foundation  of  our  Union,  find 

On  education,  talent,  mind  ; 

God's  Book,  religion's  only  guide  ; 

The  supreme  law,  in  all,  reside  ; 

Nor  can  majority  oppress 

Minority,  but  all  confess 

That  each  has  Rights,  which  all  must  see 

Respected  in  their  purity. 

in. 

The  Union  and  the  Nation  stand 
A  Government,  o'er  all  the  land  ; 
Best,  freest,  strongest,  wisest  one, 
Was,  is,  will  be,  beneath  the  sun ; 
The  greatest  numbers'  greatest  good  ; 
And  all  protected,  as  we  should ; 
Intelligence,  ability, 
For  rulers,  the  best  quality. 

was  really  Jonathan,  and  he  lived  in  one  of  the  remotest  and  most 
primitive  of  the  rural  districts  of  Northern  New  England.  His 
handwriting  was  plainly  that  of  a  man  used  rather  to  the  plough 
than  the  pen,  —  one  whose  condition  in  life  would  in  any  other  coun 
try  than  this  limit  his  knowledge  to  what  was  necessary  to  the  tilling 
of  the  few  acres  on  which  he  lived.  But  rustic  and  unlettered  as 
he  was,  what  intelligent  comprehension  his  rude  verses  exhibit  of  the 
structure  and  the  principles  of  our  government !  In  this  respect  he 
could  manifestly  put  to  school  the  smooth-mannered  crowd  of  Eu 
ropean  statesmen  and  journalists  who  with  an  air  of  such  profound 
wisdom  discuss  our  politics,  and  who  with  such  an  assumption  of 
judicial  authority  pronounced  our  doom  in  strict  accordance  with 
historical  precedent.  Viewed  in  this  light,  his  quaint  composition 
has  an  interest  which  makes  it  worthy  of  preservation. 


74       UNITED   STATES   NATIONAL  HYMN. 

IV. 

Jehovah  is  our  Head,  and  we 

Acknowledge  His  supremacy ; 

He  blesses  us,  year  after  year, 

With  all  good  things  which  do  appear ; 

He  is  our  Sovereign,  only  one; 

We  '11  have  none  else  till  Time  is  done ; 

Three  times  a  year  acknowledge  Him  : 

Fast,  July  Fourth,  Thanksgiving  time. 

v. 

As  we  march  down  the  stream  of  Time, 
New  States  extend  our  happy  clime  ; 
Go  on  increasing,  good  and  great ; 
One  Union,  formed  of  many  States : 
More  States,  the  stronger  shall  we  be 
In  union,  peace,  and  liberty ; 
East,  West,  North,  South,  on  sea  and  land, 
Forever  one,  united  stand. 

VI. 

Be  every  part  to  each  most  dear ; 
And  law  and  order  rule  us  here  ; 
Our  Constitutions  good  and  great, 
Amended  for  the  good  of  State ; 
Our  Statutes  for  the  people's  good  ; 
And  Science  guide  us  as  it  should  ; 
States  within  State ;  blest  Freedom's  land, 
United  States,  forever  stand  ! 


Stand  in  thy  strong  integrity : 

The  North  and  South  united  be 

With  East  and  West :  join  heart  and  hand 

By  our  good  Union  firm  to  stand. 

Our  President  elected  be, 

By  people's  voice,  plurality  ; 


UNION.  75 

And  the  Vice-President  the  same  ; 
The  highest  offices  of  fame. 

vin. 

Free  governments  o'er  earth  will  go  ; 

The  Bible,  education  too  ; 

The  righteous  wise  shine  as  the  sun  ; 

Knowledge  and  Arts  o'er  earth  to  run  ; 

All  know  the  Lord,  His  service  be 

Extended  over  land  and  sea  ; 

His  kingdom  come  o'er  men  to  reign, 

And  earth  be  all  the  Lord's.      Amen. 


UNION.* 

i. 

INDIVIDUAL  several,  indisintegrative  whole  ! 
Corporeal  nationality,  national  soul  ! 
Matter  indistinguishable,  immaterial  seen  ! 
End  of  all  means,  of  all  ends  mean  ! 

Chorus  —  Thus  with  eye  unfilmed  we  see 
All  the  charms  of  unity ; 
Clearly  thus  have  comprehended, 
What  our  forefathers  intended. 


Of  sempiternal  potency,  preexistent  power  ! 
Sweet  of  our  bitter,  of  our  sweetness  sour  ! 

*  Perhaps  the  writer  of  the  above  outrageous  burlesque  of  some 
of  the  traits  which  have  been  noticed  in  the  style  of  the  eminent 
author  of  "  Brahma"  should  be  ashamed  to  have  sent  them  to  the 
National  Hymn  Committee,  of  which  he  was  a  member.  If  bur 
lesque  were  all  their  purpose  they  would  not  be  here  preserved. 
Mr.  Emerson  could  well  afford  to  forgive  them,  even  if  they  did  not 
come  from  one  of  his  warmest  admirers. 


7  6  OVERTURES  FROM  RICHMOND. 

Of  Buncombe  progenitor,  issue  of  old  Ops, 
Live  thou  upon  thy  Buncombe,  die  he  within  thy  chops  ! 
Chorus  —  Thus  with  eye  unfilmed  we  see,  &c. 


Infissiparous  symbol  of  politic  etern, 

Securing  Uncle   Sam  what 's  hisn  and  every  State  what  '5 

hern, 

Of  strength  redintegrative,  of  pulchritude  e'er  fresh, 
Secesh  were  not  without  thee,  and  with  thee  no  secesh  ! 
Chorus  —  Thus  with  eye  unfilmed  we  see,  &c. 


Thus,  end  of  thy  beginning,  beginning  of  thy  end, 
Ample   power  to  break    bestowing,  reserving    power    to 

mend, 
Self-destroyer,  self-producer,  thou  hast  pluck  and  strength 

enough 

To  cuff  well  all  thy  enemies,  were  thy  enemy  not  Cuff. 
Chorus  —  Thus  with  eye  unfilmed  we  see 
All  the  charms  of  unity  ; 
Clearly  thus  have  comprehended, 
What  our  forefathers  intended. 


OVERTURES  FROM  RICHMOND. 

A   NEW   LILLIBURLERO. 
BY   PROFESSOR   F.    J.    CHILD. 

WELL,  Uncle  Sam,"  says  Jefferson  D., 

Lilliburlero,  old  Uncle  Sam, 
You  11  have  to  join  my  Confed'racy," 

Lilliburlero,  old  Uncle  Sam. 


OVERTURES  FROM  RICHMOND. 


77 


"  Lero,  lero,  that  don't  appear  O,  that    don't    appear," 

says  old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,   lero,  fillibustero,   that    don't    appear,"     says    old 

Uncle  Sam. 

"  So,  Uncle  Sam,  just  lay  down  your  arms," 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  Then  you  shall  hear  my  reas'nable  terms," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  I  'd  like  to  hear  O,  I  'd  like  to  hear,"  says 

old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  I  'd  like  to  hear,"  says  old  Uncle 

Sam. 

"  First,  you  must  own  1  've  beat  you  in  fight," 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  Then,  that  I  always  have  been  in  the  right," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  rather   severe   O,  rather    severe,"  says  old 

Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  rather  severe,"   says  old  Uncle 

Sam. 

"  Then  you  must  pay  my  national  debts," 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  No  questions  asked  about  my  assets," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  that 's  very  dear  O,  that 's  very  dear,"  says 

old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  that 's  very  dear,"  says  old  Uncle 

Sam. 

"  Also,  some  few  I.O.U's  and  bets,"  — 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  Mine  and  Bob  Toombs',  and  Slidell's  and  Rhett's," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 


78  OVERTURES  FROM  RICHMOND. 

"  Lero,  lero,  that   leaves  me  zero,  that  leaves  me  zero," 

says  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  that  leaves  me  zero,"  says  Uncle 

Sam. 


"  And,  by  the  way,  one  little  thing  more," 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  You  're  to  refund  the  cost  of  the  war," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  just  what  I  fear  O,  just  what  I  fear,"  says 

old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  just  what  I  fear,  says  old  Uncle 

Sam. 

"  Next,  you  must  own  our  cavalier  blood  ! " 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  And  that  your  Puritans  sprang  from  the  mud  !  " 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  that  mud  is  clear  O,  that  mud  is  clear,"  says 

old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  that  mud  is  clear,"  says  old  Uncle 

Sam. 

"  Slavery  's  of  course  the  chief  corner-stone," 
Lilliburlero,  etc. 

"  Of  OUr  NEW  CIV-IL-I-ZA-TI-ON  !  " 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  that 's  quite  sincere  O,  that 's  quite  sincere," 

says  old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  that 's    quite    sincere,"  says  old 

Uncle  Sam. 

"  You  '11  understand,  my  recreant  tool," 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  You  're  to  submit,  and  we  are  to  rule," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 


"ALL    WE  ASK  IS  TO  BE  LET  ALONE."    79 

"  Lero,   lero,  are  n't  you  a  hero  !  are  n't  you  a  hero ! '' 

says  Uncle  Sain. 
"  Lero,  lero,  fillibustero,  are  n't  you  a  hero !  "  says  Uncle 

Sam. 

"  If  to  these  terms  you  fully  consent," 

Lilliburlero,  etc., 
"  I  '11  be  perpetual  King-President," 

Lilliburlero,  etc. 
"  Lero,  lero,  take  your  sombrero,  off  to  your  swamps  !  " 

says  old  Uncle  Sam. 
"  Lero,   lero,    fillibustero,    cut,    double-quick !  "    says    old 

Uncle  Sam. 


"ALL  WE  ASK  IS  TO  BE  LET  ALONE."* 

BY   H.    II.    BKOYVXELL. 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp, 
There  sot  an  Old  Cove  in  the  dark  and  damp, 
And  at  everybody  as  passed  that  road 
A  stick  or  a  stone  this  Old  Cove  throwed. 
And  venever  he  flung  his  stick  or  his  stone 
He  'd  set  up  a  song  of  "  Let  me  alone." 

"  Let  me  alone,  for  I  loves  to  shy 
These  bits  of  things  at  the  passers-by ; 

*  The  humor  and  the  point  of  these  verses,  based  upon  a  well- 
known  declaration  of  Jeft'erson  Davis,  insured  their  popularity,  and 
demand  their  preservation.  But  it  should  not  remain  unnoticed 
that  the  dialect  in  which  they  are  written  is  one  never  heard  in 
this  country,  or  in  any  other;  it  being  an  incongruous  mixture  of 
that  of  the  London  cockney,  as  in  "  vonce,"  "  valked."  "  ouse,"  and 
"  ome,"  and  those  of  the  rustic  Yankee  and  the  Southwestern  man. 


8o    "ALL   WE  ASK  IS   TO  BE  LET  ALONE." 

Let  me  alone,  for  I  've  got  your  tin, 

And  lots  of  other  traps  snugly  in ; 

Let  me  alone,  I  'm  riggin'  a  boat 

To  grab  votever  you  've  got  afloat  — 

In  a  veek  or  so  I  expects  to  come 

And  turn  you  out  of  your  'ouse  and  'oine  ; 

I  'm  a  quiet  Old  Cove,"  says  he,  with  a  groan  : 

"All  I  axes  is  —  Let  me  alone." 

Just  then  came  along  on  the  self-same  vay, 

Another  Old  Cove,  and  began  for  to  say : 

"  Let  you  alone  !  that 's  comin'  it  strong  ! 

You  've  ben  let  alone  —  a  darned  sight  too  long ; 

Of  all  the  sarce  that  ever  I  heerd !  — 

Put  down  that  stick  !     (You  well  may  look  skeered  ; ) 

Let  go  that  stone  !     If  you  once  show  fight, 

I  '11  knock  you  higher  than  ary  kite. 

You  must  hev  a  lesson  to  stop  your  tricks, 

And  cure  you  of  shying  them  stones  and  sticks  ; 

And  I  '11  hev  my  hardware  back,  and  my  cash, 

And  knock  your  scow  into  tarnal  smash ; 

And  if  ever  I  catches  you  'round  my  ranch, 

I  '11  string  you  up  to  the  nearest  branch. 

The  best  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  bed, 

And  keep  a  decent  tongue  in  your  head  ; 

For  I  reckon,  before  you  and  I  are  done, 

You  '11  wish  you  had  let  honest  folks  alone  " 

The  Old  Cove  stopped,  and  the  t'  other  Old  Cove 
He  sot  quite  still  in  his  cypress  grove, 
And  he  looked  at  his  stick,  revolvin'  slow 
Vether  't  were  safe  to  shy  it  or  no ; 
And  he  grumbled  on  in  an  injured  tone  : 
"All  that  I  axed  vos,  let  me  alone" 


TARDY  GEORGE.  8 1 


TARDY  GEORGE. 

WHAT  are  you  waiting  for,  George,  I  pray  ? 
To  scour  your  cross-belts  with  fresh  pipe-clay  ? 
To  burnish  your  buttons,  to  brighten  your  guns ; 
Or  wait  you  for  May-day  and  warm-spring  suns  ? 
Are  you  blowing  your  fingers  because  they  are  cold, 
Or  catching  your  breath  ere  you  take  a  hold  ? 
Is  the  mud  knee-deep  in  valley  and  gorge  ? 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Want  you  a  thousand  more  cannon  made, 
To  add  to  the  thousand  now  arrayed  ? 
Want  you  more  men,  more  money  to  pay  ? 
Are  not  two  millions  enough  per  day  ? 
Wait  you  for  gold  and  credit  to  go, 
Before  we  shall  see  your  martial  show  ; 
Till  Treasury  Notes  will  not  pay  to  forge  ? 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Are  you  waiting  for  your  hair  to  turn, 
Your  heart  to  soften,  your  bowels  to  yearn 
A  little  more  toward  "  our  Southern  friends," 
As  at  home  and  abroad  they  work  their  ends  ? 
"  Our  Southern  friends ! "  whom  you  hold  so  dear 
That  you  do  no  harm  and  give  no  fear, 
As  you  tenderly  take  them  by  the  gorge,  — 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Now  that  you  Ve  marshalled  your  whole  command, 
Planned  what  you  would,  and  changed  what  you  planned  ; 
Practised  with  shot  and  practised  with  shell. 
Know  to  a  hair  where  every  one  fell, 
Made  signs  by  day  and  signals  by  night  ; 
Was  it  all  done  to  keep  out  of  a  fight  ? 


82  TARDY  GEORGE. 

Is  the  whole  matter  too  heavy  a  charge  ? 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

Shall  we  have  more  speeches,  more  reviews  ? 
Or  are  you  waiting  to  hear  the  news ; 
To  hold  up  your  hands  in  mute  surprise, 
When  France  and  England  shall  "  recognize  "  ? 
Are  you  too  grand  to  fight  traitors  small  ? 
Must  you  have  a  nation  to  cope  withal  ? 
Well,  hammer  the  anvil  and  blow  the  forge,  — 
You  '11  soon  have  a  dozen,  tardy  George. 

Suppose  for  a  moment,  George,  my  friend,  — 
Just  for  a  moment,  —  you  condescend 
To  use  the  means  that  are  in  your  hands, 
The  eager  muskets  and  guns  and  brands  ; 
Take  one  bold  step  on  the  Southern  sod, 
And  leave  the  issue  to  watchful  God  ! 
For  now  the  nation  raises  its  gorge, 
Waiting  and  watching  you,  tardy  George. 

I  should  not  much  wonder,  George,  rny  boy, 

If  Stanton  get  in  his  head  a  toy, 

And  some  fine  morning,  ere  you  are  out, 

He  send  you  all  "  to  the  right  about,"  — 

You  and  Jomini,  and  all  the  crew 

Who  think  that  war  is  nothing  to  do 

But  to  drill  and  cipher,  and  hammer  and  forge,  — 

\Vhat  are  you  waiting  for,  tardy  George  ? 

January,  18G2. 


THE  CUMBERLAND.          83 


THE  CUMBERLAND* 

BY   HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  the  Cumberland  sloop-of-war, 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarm  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle-blast 
From  the  camp  on  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  South  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 


*  Sunk  by  the  iron-clad  ram  Merrimac  in  Hampton  Roads, 
Saturday,  March  8,  1862,  going  down  with  her  colors  flying,  and 
firing  upon  her  impenetrable  assailant  as  the  water  rose  above  her 
own  gun-deck. 


84  ON  BOARD   THE    CUMBERLAND. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never  ! "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 

"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  ! " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a- wrack. 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast-head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas, 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream. 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam. 


ON  BOARD    THE    CUMBERLAND. 

March  8,  1862. 

BY    GEORGE   II.    BOKER. 

"  STAND  to  your  guns,  men  ! "  Morris  cried. 
Small  need  to  pass  the  word  ; 


ON   BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND.  85 

Our  men  at  quarters  ranged  themselves, 
Before  the  drum  was  heard. 

And  then  began  the  sailors'  jests  : 

"  What  thing  is  that,  I  say  ?  " 
"  A  long-shore  meeting-house  adrift 

Is  standing  down  the  bay ! " 

A  frown  came  over  Morris's  face ; 

The  strange,  dark  craft  he  knew ; 
"  That  is  the  iron  Merrimac, 

Manned  by  a  Rebel  crew. 

"  So  shot  your  guns,  and  point  them  straight ; 

Before  this  day  goes  by, 
We  '11  try  of  what  her  metal 's  made." 

A  cheer  was  our  reply. 

"  Remember,  boys,  this  flag  of  ours 

Has  seldom  left  its  place ; 
And  where  it  falls,  the  deck  it  strikes 

Is  covered  with  disgrace. 

"  I  ask  but  this :   or  sink  or  swim, 

Or  live  or  nobly  die, 
My  last  sight  upon  earth  may  be 

To  see  that  ensign  fly  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  shapeless  iron  mass 

Came  moving  o'er  the  wave, 
As  gloomy  as  a  passing  hearse, 

As  silent  as  the  grave. 

Her  ports  were  closed,  from  stem  to  stern 

No  sign  of  life  appeared. 
We  wondered,  questioned,  strained  our  eyes, 

Joked,  —  everything  but  feared. 


86  ON  BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND. 

She  reached  our  range.     Our  broadside  rang, 

Our  heavy  pivots  roared  ; 
And  shot  and  shell,  a  fire  of  hell, 

Against  her  sides  we  poured. 

God's  mercy  !  from  her  sloping  roof 

The  iron  tempest  glanced, 
As  hail  bounds  from  a  cottage-thatch, 

And  round  her  leaped  and  danced ; 

Or  when  against  her  dusky  hull 

We  struck  a  fair,  full  blow, 
The  mighty,  solid  iron  globes 

Were  crumbled  up  like  snow. 

On,  on,  with  fast  increasing  speed, 

The  silent  monster  came  ; 
Though  all  our  starboard  battery 

Was  one  long  line  of  flame. 

She  heeded  not,  no  gun  she  fired, 
Straight  on  our  bow  she  bore ; 

Through  riving  plank  and  crashing  frame 
Her  furious  way  she  tore. 

Alas  !  our  beautiful,  keen  bow, 

That  in  the  fiercest  blast 
So  gently  folded  back  the  seas, 

They  hardly  felt  we  passed  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !    my  Cumberland, 

That  ne'er  knew  grief  before, 
To  be  so  gored,  to  feel  so  deep 

The  tusk  of  that  sea-boar  ! 

Once  more  she  backward  drew  a  space, 
Once  more  our  side  she  rent ; 


ON  BOARD  THE  CUMBERLAND.  87 

Then,  in  the  wantonness  of  hate, 
Her  broadside  through  us  sent. 

The  dead  and  dying  round  us  lay, 

But  our  foeman  lay  abeam ; 
Her  open  port-holes  maddened  us  ; 

We  fired  with  shout  and  scream. 

We  felt  our  vessel  settling  fast, 

We  knew  our  time  was  brief; 
"  The  pumps,  the  pumps  !  "    But  they  who  pumped, 

And  fought  not,  wept  with  grief. 

"  Oh,  keep  us  but  an  hour  afloat ! 

Oh,  give  us  only  time 
To  be  the  instruments  of  Heaven 

Against  the  traitors'  crime  !  " 

From  captain  down  to  powder-boy, 

No  hand  was  idle  then : 
Two  soldiers,  but  by  chance  aboard, 

Fought  on  like  sailor-men. 

And  when  a  gun's  crew  lost  a  hand, 

Some  bold  marine  stepped  out, 
And  jerked  his  braided  jacket  off, 

And  hauled  the  <run  about. 


Our  forward  magazine  was  drowned  ; 

And  up  from  the  sick-bay 
Crawled  out  the  wounded,  red  with  blood, 

And  round  us  gasping  lay. 

Yes,  cheering,  calling  us  by  name, 
Struggling  with  failing  breath, 

To  keep  their  shipmates  at  the  post 
Where  glory  strove  with  death. 


88  ON  BOARD   THE   CUMBERLAND. 

With  decks  afloat,  and  powder  gone, 

The  last  broadside  we  gave 
From  the  guns'  heated  iron  lips 

Burst  out  beneath  the  wave. 

So  sponges,  rammers,  and  handspikes  — 
As  men-of-war's-men  should  — 

We  placed  within  their  proper  racks, 
And  at  our  quarters  stood. 

"  Up  to  the  spar-deck  !  save  yourselves  !  " 
Cried  Selfridge.     "  Up,  my  men  ! 

God  grant  that  some  of  us  may  live 
To  fight  yon  ship  again  !  " 

We  turned  —  we  did  not  like  to  go  ; 

Yet  staying  seemed  but  vain, 
Knee-deep  in  water ;  so  we  left ; 

Some  swore,  some  groaned  with  pain. 

We  reached  the  deck.     There  Randall  stood 

"  Another  turn,  men  —  so  !  " 
Calmly  he  aimed  his  pivot-gun  : 

"  Now,  Tenny,  let  her  go  !  " 

It  did  our  sore  hearts  good  to  hear 

The  song  our  pivot  sang, 
As  rushing  on  from  wave  to  wave 

The  whirring  bomb-shell  sprang. 

Brave  Randall  leaped  upon  the  gun, 

And  waved  his  cap  in  sport ; 
"  Well  done  !  well  aimed  !  I  saw  that  shell 

Go  through  an  open  port." 

It  was  our  last,  our  deadliest  shot ; 
The  deck  was  overflown ; 


ON  BOARD    THE   CUMBERLAND.  89 

The  poor  ship  staggered,  lurched  to  port, 
And  gave  a  living  groan. 

Down,  down,  as  headlong  through  the  waves 

Our  gallant  vessel  rushed, 
A  thousand  gurgling,  watery  sounds 

Around  my  senses  gushed. 

Then  I  remember  little  more ; 

One  look  to  heaven  I  gave, 
Where,  like  an  angel's  wing,  I  saw 

Our  spotless  ensign  wave. 

I  tried  to  cheer.     I  cannot  say 

Whether  I  swam  or  sank ; 
A  blue  mist  closed  around  my  eyes, 

And  everything  was  blank. 

When  I  awoke,  a  soldier-lad, 

All  dripping  from  the  sea, 
With  two  great  tears  upon  his  cheeks, 

Was  bending  over  me. 

I  tried  to  speak.      He  understood 

The  wish  I  could  not  speak. 
He  turned  me.      There,  thank  God  !  the  flag 

Still  fluttered  at  the  peak ! 

And  there,  while  thread  shall  hang  to  thread, 

Oh,  let  that  ensign  fly  ! 
The  noblest  constellation  set 

Against  our  northern  sky. 

A  sign  that  we  who  live  may  claim 

The  peerage  of  the  brave  ; 
A  monument,  that  needs  no  scroll 

For  those  beneath  the  wave  ! 


90  MARCHING  ALONG. 

MARCHING    ALONG.* 

BY   \VILLIAM   B.    BRADBURY. 

THE  army  is  gathering  from  near  and  from  far  ; 
The  trumpet  is  sounding  the  call  for  the  war ; 
McClellan  's  our  leader,  he  's  gallant  and  strong  ; 
We  '11  gird  on  our  armor  and  be  marching  along. 

CHORUS. 

Marching  along,  we  are  marching  along, 
Gird  on  the  armor  and  be  marching  along  ; 
McClellan  's  our  leader,  he  's  gallant  and  strong  ; 
For  God  and  our  country  AVC  are  marching  along. 

The  foe  is  before  us  in  battle  array, 
But  let  us  not  waver,  or  turn  from  the  way ; 
The  Lord  is  our  strength,  and  the  Union  's  our  song ; 
With  courage  and  faith  we  are  marching  along. 
Chorus  —  Marching  along,  &c. 

Our  wives  and  our  children  we  leave  in  your  care  ; 
We  feel  you  will  help  them  with  sorrow  to  bear; 
'T  is  hard  thus  to  part,  but  we  hope  't  won't  be  long ; 
We  '11  keep  up  our  hearts  as  we  're  marching  along. 
Chorus  —  Marching  along,  &c. 

We  sigh  for  our  country,  we  mourn  for  our  dead  ; 
For  them  now  our  last  drop  of  blood  we  will  shed  ; 

*  Few  songs  were  more  truly  popular  all  through  the  war  than 
this,  which  is  here  printed  from  a  street  broadside.  It  was  sung  in 
the  streets  and  at  the  public  schools,  and  by  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men.  The  name  McClellan,  in  the  first  stanza,  was  successively 
replaced  by  Hooker,  Meade,  and  Grant,  with  "  for,"  prefixed 
when  necessary  to  eke  out  the  measure.  A  vigorous  and  spirited 
melody,  with  a  well-marked  rhythm,  which  was  particularly  good 
in  the  chorus,  contributed  much  to  the  universal  favor  in  which 
this  song  was  held. 


A    YANKEE  SOLDIER'S  SONG.  91 

Our  cause  is  the  right  one  —  our  foe 's  in  the  wrong  ; 
Then  gladly  we  '11  sing  as  we  're  marching  along. 
Chorus  —  Marching  along,  &c. 

The  flag  of  our  country  is  floating  on  high  ; 
We  '11  stand  by  that  flag  till  we  conquer  or  die  ; 
McClellan  's  our  leader,  he  's  gallant  and  strong  ; 
We  '11  gird  on  our  armor  and  be  marching  along. 
Chorus  —  Marching  along,  &c. 


A  YANKEE    SOLDIER'S    SONG. 

I  HEARKENED  to  the  thund'ring  noise, 
And  wondered  what  't  was  for,  sir  ! 
But  when  I  heard  'em  tell  our  boys, 
I  started  up  and  swore,  sir ! 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out ! 
Yankees  brave  and  handy  ! 
Freedom  be  our  battle-shout ! 
Yankee  doodle  dandy  ! 

They  said  that  traitors  tore  our  flag, 
Down  there  in  Dixie's  land,  sir  ; 

I  always  loved  the  striped  rag, 
And  swore  by  it  to  stand,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &e. 

I  knew  them  Southern  chaps,  high-bred, 
Had  called  us  "  mudsills  "  here,  sir : 

If  on  these  sills  they  try  to  tread, 
I  guess  't  will  cost  them  dear,  sir. 

Y"ankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 


92  A    YANKEE  SOLDIER'S  SONG. 

Down  South  I  marched,  rat-tat-a-plan, 
With  heart  brimful  of  pluck,  sir  ; 

I  held  my  head  up  like  a  man  ; 
A  righteous  cause  brings  luck,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out!  &c. 

So  proud  was  I  of  fatherland, 
Where  humans  all  are  free,  sir, 

I  found  it  hard  to  understand 
Some  things  I  lived  to  see,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

To  us  one  day  a  brown  man  came, 

In  Dixie's  land  a  slave,  sir, 
And  pleaded  hard,  in  Freedom's  name, 

That  him  we  'd  try  to  save,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out!  &c. 

"  Of  course  we  will/'  our  men  cried  out ; 

"  All  free  beneath  this  flag,  sir  ! " 
Then  he  began,  with  hearty  shout, 

To  cheer  the  starry  rag,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

But,  whip  in  hand,  a  master  came, 
And  drove  that  man  away,  sir ; 

We  felt  it  was  a  burning  shame, 
But  could  not  have  our  say,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

To  us  it  seems  a  coward's  shirk,  — 
It  makes  us  feel  less  brave,  sir ; 

We  call  it  mean  and  "  mudsill "  work, 
This  sending  back  a  slave,  sir ! 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

We  did  not  leave  our  homes  to  do 
Such  dirty  jobs  as  these,  sir ; 


THE   IRISH  PICKET.  93 

Our  hearts  within  us,  warm  and  true, 
It  chills  and  makes  'em  freeze,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

The  man  who  works  with  heart  is  strong, 

And  right  keeps  up  the  pluck,  sir ; 
We  cannot  feel  so  bold  for  wrong,  — 

We  cannot  hope  for  luck,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

We  long  to  have  our  flag  unfurled 
To  make  the  whole  land  free,  sir  — 

For  we  can  proudly  face  the  world 
When  we  that  day  shall  see,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out !  &c. 

Oh,  how  we  '11  hail  our  banner  then  ! 
Its  fame  all  clear  and  bright,  sir ; 
When  all  can  feel  that  they  are  men, 
And  all  have  equal  right,  sir. 

Yankee  boys  will  fight  it  out ! 
Yankees  brave  and  handy  ! 
Freedom  be  our  battle-shout ! 
Yankee  doodle  dandy ! 


THE   IRISH   PICKET. 

BY  "  BARNEY." 

AIR  —  "  Pm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary.'1'' 

I  'M  shtanding  in  the  mud,  Biddy, 
Wid  not  a  spalpeen  near, 

And  silence,  spaichless  as  the  grave, 
Is  all  the  sound  I  hear. 


94  THE  IRISH  PICKET. 

Me  goon  is  at  a  showlther-arrns, 
I  'in  wetted  to  the  bone, 

And  whin  I  'm  afther  sphakin'  out, 
I  find  meself  alone. 

This  Southern  climate  's  quare,  Biddy, 

A  quare  and  bastely"  thing, 
Wid  winter  absint  all  the  year. 

And  summer  in  the  spring. 
Ye  mind  the  hot  place  down  below  ? 

And  may  ye  never  fear 
I  'd  dthraw  comparisons  —  but  thin 

It 's  awful  warrum  here. 

The  only  moon  I  see,  Biddy, 

Is  one  shmall  star,  asthore, 
And  that 's  fornint  the  very  cloud 

It  was  behind  before ; 
The  watch-fires  glame  along  the  hill 

That 's  swellin'  to  the  south, 
And  whin  the  sinthry  passes  them, 

I  see  his  oogly  mouth. 

It 's  dead  for  shlape  I  am,  Biddy, 

And  dramein'  shwate  I  'd  be, 
If  them  ould  Rebels  over  there 

Would  only  lave  me  free ; 
But  whin  I  lane  against  a  shtump 

And  shtrive  to  get  repose, 
A  musket  ball  be  's  comin'  shtraight 

To  hit  me  spacious  nose. 

It  *s  ye  I  'd  like  to  see,  Biddy, 
A  shparkin  here  wid  me; 

And  then,  avourneen,  hear  ye  say, 
"  Acushla  —  Pat  —  machree  ! " 

"  Och,  Biddy,  darlint,"  then  says  I ; 
Says  you,  "  Get  out  of  that ; ' 


THE  IRISH  PICKET.  95 

Says  I,  "  Me  arruni  mates  your  waist ; " 
Says  you,  "  Be  daycent,  Pat." 

And  how  's  the  pigs  and  doocks,  Biddy  ? 

It 's  them  I  think  of,  sh.ure, 
That  looked  so  innocent  and  shwate 

Upon  the  parlor-flure ; 
I  'm  shure  ye  're  aisy  wid  the  pig, 

That 's  fat  as  he  can  be, 
And  fade  him  wid  the  best,  because 

I'm  towld  he  looks  like  me. 

Whin  I  come  home  again,  Biddy, 

A  sargent  tried  and  thrue, 
It 's  joost  a  daycent  house  I  '11  build, 

And  rint  it  chape  to  you. 
We  '11  have  a  parlor,  bedroom,  hall, 

A  doock-pond  nately  done, 
Wid  kitchen,  pig-pen,  praty-patch, 

And  garret  —  all  in  one. 

But,  murther  !  there  's  a  baste,  Biddy, 

That 's  crapin'  round  a  tree, 
And  well  I  know  the  crathur  's  there 

To  have  a  shot  at  me. 
Now,  Misther  Rebel,  say  yer  pray'rs, 

And  howld  yer  dirty  paw  ; 
Here  goes  !  —  be  jabers,  Biddy,  dear, 

I  Ve  broke  his  oogly  jaw  ! 


96  HALLELUJAH  CHORUS. 

WORDS    THAT    CAN    BE    SUNG    TO    THE 
"  HALLELUJAH  CHORUS." 

BY   HENRY   II.    BROWNELL,    U.    S.    N. 

If  people  will  sing  about  Old  John  Brown,  there  is  no  reason  why 
they  shouldn't  have  words  with  a  little  meaning  and  rhythm  in 
them. 

OLD  John  Brown  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
Old  John  Brown  lies  slumbering  in  his  grave ; 
But  John  Brown's  soul  is  marching  with  the  brave, 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He  has  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 
He  is  sworn  as  a  private  in  the  ranks  of  the  Lord ; 
He  shall  stand  at  Armageddon  with  his  brave  old  sword, 

When  Heaven  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

For  Heaven  is  marching  on. 

He  shall  file  in  front  where  the  lines  of  battle  form, 
He  shall  face  to  front  when  the  squares  of  battle  form, 
Time  with  the  column,  and  charge  in  the  storm, 

Where  men  are  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

True  men  are  marching  on. 

Ah  !  foul  tyrants  !    do  ye  hear  him  where  he  comes  ? 
Ah  !  black  traitors  !  do  ye  know  him  as  he  comes  ? 
In  thunder  of  the  cannon  and  roll  of  the  drums, 

As  we  go  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

We  all  are  marching  on. 


LULLABY. 

Men  may  die,  and  moulder  in  the  dust, 
Men  may  die,  and  arise  again  from  dust, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  ranks  of  the  just, 

When  Heaven  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 
The  Lord  is  marching  on. 
April  17,  1862. 


LULLABY. 

BY   E.   JEFFERSON    CUTLER. 

Now  the  twilight  shadows  flit ; 
Now  the  evening  lamp  is  lit ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
Little  head  on  mother's  arm, 
She  will  keep  him  safe  from  harm, — 
Keep  him  safe  and  fold  him  warm  : 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Baby's  father,  far  away, 
Thinks  of  him  at  shut  of  day  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
He  must  guard  the  sleeping  camp, 
Hearkening,  in  the  cold  and  damp, 
For  the  foeman's  stealthy  tramp  : 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

He  can  hear  the  lullaby, 
He  can  see  the  laughing  eye ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
And  he  knows,  though  we  are  dumb, 
How  we  long  to  have  him  come 
Back  to  baby,  mother,  home  : 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
7 


97 


98  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

Now  the  eyes  are  closing  up  ; 
Let  their  little  curtains  drop  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
Softly  on  his  father's  bed 
Mother  lays  her  baby's  head  ; 
There,  until  the  night  be  fled, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

God,  who  driest  the  widow's  tears, 
God,  who  calms    the  orphan's  fears, 

Guard  baby's  sleep  ! 
Shield  the  father  in  the  fray ; 
Help  the  mother  wait  and  pray ; 
Keep  us  all  by  night  and  day  : 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Only  Once. 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

BY   H.    H.    BROWNELL,    U.    S.    N. 

Do  you  know  of  the  dreary  land, 

If  land  such  region  may  seem, 
Where  't  is  neither  sea  nor  strand, 
Ocean  nor  good  dry  land, 

But  the  nightmare  marsh  of  a  dream  ? 
Where  the  Mighty  River  his  death-road  takes, 
Mid  pools  and  windings  that  coil  like  snakes, 
A  hundred  leagues  of  bayous  and  lakes, 

To  die  in  the  great  Gulf  Stream  ? 

No  coast-line  clear  and  true, 
Granite  and  deep-sea  blue, 

On  that  dismal  shore  you  pass, 
Surf- worn  boulder  or  sandy  beach,  — 


THE  1UVER  FIGHT. 

But  ooze-flats  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach. 

With  shallows  of  water-grass  ; 
Reedy  savannahs,  vast  and  dun, 
Lying  dead  in  the  dim  March  sun  ; 
Huge  rotting  trunks  and  roots  that  lie 
Like  the  blackened  bones  of  shapes  gone  by, 

And  miles  of  sunken  morass. 

No  lovely,  delicate  thing 

Of  life  o'er  the  waste  is  seen ; 
But  the  cayman,  couched  by  his  weedy  spring, 

And  the  pelican,  bird  unclean, 
Or  the  buzzard,  flapping  with  heavy  wing, 

Like  an  evil  ghost  o'er  the  desolate  scene. 

Ah  !  many  a  weary  day 
With  our  Leader  there  we  lay, 

In  the  sultry  haze  and  smoke, 
Tugging  our  ships  o'er  the  bar, 
Till  the  Spring  was  wasted  far, 

Till  his  brave  heart  almost  broke. 
For  the  sullen  river  seemed 
As  if  our  intent  he  dreamed,  — 

All  his  sallow  mouths  did  spew  and  choke. 

But  ere  April  fully  passed, 

All  ground  over  at  last, 

And  we  knew  the  die  was  cast,  — • 

Knew  the  day  drew  nigh 
To  dare  to  the  end  one  stormy  deed, 
Might  save  the  land  at  her  sorest  need, 

Or  on  the  old  deck  to  die  ! 

Anchored  we  lay,  —  and  a  morn  the  more, 

To  his  captains  and  all  his  men 
Thus  wrote  our  old  Commodore  — 

(He  was  n't  Admiral  then)  : 


99 


100  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 


"GENERAL  ORDERS. 
"  Send  your  to'gallant-masts  down, 

Rig  in  each  flying  jib-boom  ! 

Clear  all  ahead  for  the  loom 
Of  traitor  fortress  and  town, 
Or  traitor  fleet  bearing  down. 

"  In  with  your  canvas  high  ; 

We  shall  want  no  sail  to  fly  ! 
Topsail,  foresail,  spanker,  and  jib, 
(With  the  heart  of  oak  in  the  oaken  rib,) 

Shall  serve  us  to  win  or  die  ! 

"  Trim  every  sail  by  the  head, 

(So  shall  you  spare  the  lead,) 
Lest,  if  she  ground,  your  ship  swing  round, 

Bows  in  shore,  for  a  wreck. 
See  your  grapnels  all  clear  with  pains, 
And  a  solid  kedge  in  your  port  main-chains, 

With  a  whip  to  the  main  yard : 

Drop  it  heavy  and  hard 

When  you  grapple  a  traitor  deck  ! 

"  On  forecastle  and  on  poop 

Mount  guns,  as  best  you  may  deem. 

If  possible,  rouse  them  up, 

(For  still  you  must  bow  the  stream.) 

Also  hoist  and  secure  with  stops 

Howitzers  firmly  in  your  tops, 
To  fire  on  the  foe  a-beam. 

"  Look  well  to  your  pumps  and  hose ; 
Have  water-tubs  fore  and  aft, 
For  quenching  flame  in  your  craft, 
And  the  gun-crews'  fiery  thirst. 

See  planks  with  felt  fitted  close, 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

To  plug  every  shot-hole  tight. 

Stand  ready  to  meet  the  worst ! 
For,  if  I  have  reckoned  aright, 
They  will  serve  us  shot,  both  cold  and  hot, 
Freely  enough  to-night. 

"  Mark  well  each  signal  I  make,  — 
(Our  life-long  service  at  stake, 

And  honor  that  must  not  lag  !) 
Whate'er  the  peril  and  awe, 
In  the  battle's  fieriest  flaw, 
Let  never  one  ship  withdraw 

Till  the  orders  come  from  the  flag  ! " 


Would  you  hear  of  the  River  Fight  ? 
It  was  two  of  a  soft  spring  night ; 

God's  stars  looked  down  on  all ; 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  clinging  breath  : 
Up  the  River  of  Death 

Sailed  the  Great  Admiral. 

On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 

And  round  him  ranged  the  men 
Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 

Of  manhood  once  and  again,  — 
Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 
Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck. 
Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 
Each  his  line  of  the  Blue  and  Red ; 
Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail ; 

Thornton  fought  the  deck. 

And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 
Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 


102  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 
Of  the  seamen  passed  away. 
Tyson  conned  our  helm  that  day  ; 

Watson  stood  by  his  guns. 

What  thought  our  Admiral  then, 
Looking  down  on  his  men  ? 

Since  the  terrible  day,  — 
(Day  of  renown  and  tears !) 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay, 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay,  — 
When  a  boy  by  Porter's  side  he  stood, 
Till  deck  and  plank-shear  were  dyed  with  blood : 
'T  is  half  a  hundred  years,  — 

Half  a  hundred  years  to  a  day  ! 

Who  could  fail  with  him  ? 
Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb  ? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher ! 
There  had  you  seen,  by  the  starlight  dim, 
Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim : 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire  ! 
Right  up  by  the  fort,  with  her  helm  hard  a-port, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire  ! 

The  way  to  our  work  was  plain. 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain, 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain 

Soon  as  't  Avas  sundered.) 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true, 
Ship  after  ship  went  through, 
Till,  as  Ave  hove  in  vieAV, 

"  Jackson  "  out-thundered. 

Back  echoed  "  Philip  !  "     Ah  !  then 
Could  you  have  seen  our  men, 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  10 j 

How  they  sprung,  in  the  dim  night  haze, 
To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor ! 
How  the  boarders,  with  sponge  and  rammer, 
And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muzzle  a-blaze. 
How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout 
Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out, 

Brought  up  on  the  water-ways ! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 

'T  was  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 
With  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash. 
But  soon,  upon  either  bow, 

What  with  forts,  and  fire-rafts,  and  ships, 
(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it,  now,) 
All  pounding  away  !  —  and  Porter 
Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar,  — 

'T  was  the  mighty  sound  and  form  ! 

(Such  you  see  in  the  far  South, 
After  long  heat  and  drought, 

As  day  draws  nigh  to  even, 
Arching  from  north  to  south, 

Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 

The  great  black  bow  comes  on, 
Till  the  thunder-veil  is  riven,  — 
When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 
And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 

Rolls  down  the  Amazon  !) 

But,  as  we  worked  along  higher, 

Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 
Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire,  — 

It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges. 

(We  had  often  had  the  like  before.) 
'T  was  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 

Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore ; 

And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round, 


104  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound,) 
Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 
Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground ! 

'T  was  nigh  abreast  of  the  Upper  Fort, 

And  straightway  a  rascal  Ram 

(She  was  shaped  like  the  Devil's  dam) 
Puffed  away  for  us,  with  a  snort, 

And  shoved  it,  with  spiteful  strength, 
Right  alongside  of  us  to  port. 

It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length,  — 
A  huge  crackling  Cradle  of  the  Pit  ! 

Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 

Belching  flame  red  and  grim,  — 
What  a  roar  came  up  from  it ! 

Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad  : 

But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter 
In  the  acting  than  in  the  telling  ; 
There  was  no  singing  out  or  yelling, 
Or  any  fussing  and  fretting, 

No  stampede,  in  short ; 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 

All  a-fire  on  our  port  quarter 
Hammocks  a-blaze  in  the  netting, 

Flame  spouting  in  at  every  port, 
Our  Fourth  Cutter  burning  at  the  davit, 
(No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it.) 

In  a  twinkling,  the  flames  had  risen 
Half  way  to  main-top  and  mizen, 

Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes  ! 

Ah,  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes, 

And  the  deep  steaming-pumps  throbbed  under, 

Sending  a  ceaseless  flow. 
Our  top-men,  a  dauntless  crowd, 
Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud : 
There,  ('t  was  a  wonder  !  ) 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  105 

The  burning  ratlins  and  strands 

They  quenched  with  their  bare  hard  hands  ; 

But  the  great  guns  below 

Never  silenced  their  thunder  ! 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 
When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 

And  under  headway  once  more, 
The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 

The  point.     If  we  had  it  hot  before, 

'T  was  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 

One  long,  loud  thundering  roar,  — 
Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 

And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before ! 

But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck, 
And  to  save  the  land  we  loved  so  well, 

You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun-deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell ! 

For  above  all  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 

Smoke  and  thunder  alone  ; 
(But,  down  in  the  sick-bay, 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 

There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan.) 
And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 

Drearily  blinking 

O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon  smoke, 
That  ever  such  morning  dulls,  — 
There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 

On  fire  and  sinking  ! 

Now,  up  the  river !  —  through  mad  Chalmette 
Sputters  a  vain  resistance  yet 
Small  helm  we  gave  her,  our  course  to  steer,  — 
'T  was  nicer  work  than  you  well  would  dream, 


I06  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

With  cant  and  sheer  to  keep  her  clear 

Of  the  burning  wrecks  that  cumbered  the  stream. 

The  Louisiana,  hurled  on  high, 

Mounts  in  thunder  to  meet  the  sky ! 

Then  down  to  the  depths  of  the  turbid  flood,  — 

Fifty  fathom  of  rebel  mud  ! 

The  Mississippi  comes  floating  down, 

A  mighty  bonfire,  from  off  the  town  ; 

And  along  the  river,  on  stocks  and  ways, 

A  half-hatched  devil's  brood  is  a-blaze,  — 

The  great  Anglo-Norman  is  all  in  flames, 

(Hark  to  the  roar  of  her  tumbling  frames  ! ) 

And  the  smaller  fry  that  Treason  would  spawn 

Are  lighting  Algiers  like  an  angry  dawn  ! 

From  stem  to  stern,  how  the  pirates  burn, 
Fired  by  the  furious  hands  that  built  ! 

So  to  ashes  forever  turn 

The  suicide  wrecks  of  wrong  and  guilt  ! 

But  as  we  neared  the  city, 

By  field  and  vast  plantation, 

(Ah,  millstone  of  our  Nation  !  ) 
With  wonder  and  with  pity, 

What  crowds  we  there  espied 
Of  dark  and  wistful  faces, 
Mute  in  their  toiling  places, 

Strangely  and  sadly  eyed. 

Haply,  'mid  doubt  and  fear, 

Deeming  deliverance  near. 

(One  gave  the  ghost  of  a  cheer  ! ) 

And  on  that  dolorous  strand, 

To  greet  the  victor  brave 

One  flag  did  welcome  wave,  — 
Raised,  ah  me  !  by  a  wretched  hand, 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  107 

All  outworn  on  our  cruel  Land,  — 
The  withered  hand  of  a  slave  ! 

But  all  along  the  Levee, 

In  a  dark  and  drenching  rain, 
(By  this,  't  was  pouring  heavy,) 

Stood  a  fierce  and  sullen  train. 
A  strange  and  frenzied  time  ! 

There  were  scowling  rage  and  pain, 
Curses,  howls  and  hisses, 
Out  of  hate's  black  abysses,  — 
Their  courage  and  their  crime 

All  in  vain  —  all  in  vain  ! 

For  from  the  hour  that  the  Rebel  Stream, 
With  the  Crescent  City  lying  abeam, 

Shuddered  under  our  keel, 
Smit  to  the  heart  with  self-struck  sting, 
Slavery  died  in  her  scorpion-ring, 

And  Murder  fell  on  his  steel. 

'T  is  well  to  do  and  dare  ; 
But  ever  may  grateful  prayer 
Follow,  as  aye  it  ought, 
When  the  good  fight  is  fought, 

When  the  true  deed  is  done. 
Aloft  in  heaven's  pure  light, 
(Deep  azure  crossed  on  white,) 
Our  fair  Church  pennant  waves 
O'er  a  thousand  thankful  braves, 

Bareheaded  in  God's  bright  sun. 

Lord  of  mercy  and  frown, 

Ruling  o'er  sea  and  shore, 

Send  us  such  scene  once  more ! 

All  in  line  of  battle 
When  the  black  ships  bear  down 


Io8     THE  BALLAD   OF  THE   CRESCENT  CITY. 

On  tyrant  fort  and  town, 

Mid  cannon  cloud  and  rattle  ; 
And  the  great  guns  once  more 
Thunder  back  the  roar 
Of  the  traitor  walls  ashore, 
And  the  traitor  flags  come  down  ! 

New  Orleans  Era. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CRESCENT  CITY. 

i. 

IN  the  City  of  the  Crescent,  by  red  Mississippi's  waves, 
Dwells  the  haughty   Creole  matron  with   her  daughters 

and  her  slaves ; 
Round  her   throng  the  rebel  knighthood,  fierce  of  word 

and  proud  of  crest, 

Slightly  redolent  of  julep,  cocktail,  cobbler,  and  the  rest 
Of  those  miscellaneous  tipples  that  the  Southern  heart 

impel 
To  the  mighty  threats  of  prowess,  whose  dread  fruits  we 

know  so  well.* 
Round  the  matron  and  her  daughters  ring  chivalric  voices 

high: 
Not  the  meanest  soul  among  them  but  is  sworn  to  do  or 

die! 
"  Never  to  the  Yankee  Vandal,  foul  and  horned  thing  of 

mud, 
Will  they  leave  their  maids  and  matrons  while  a  single 

vein  holds  blood  ! 


*  It  is  singular  that  the  juleps,  cocktails,  and  "miscellaneous 
tipples"  which  European  writers  continually  ridicule  as  a  trait  of 
Yankee  life,  are  all,  as  we  know,  of  Southern  invention. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CRESCENT  CITY.     109 

Perish  every  Southron  sooner  !     Death  ?     They  crave  it 

as  a  boon  ! " 
Then    each    desperate    knight    retires  —  to    his    favorite 

Quadroon  ! 


In  the  City  of  the  Crescent,  by  red  Mississippi's  waves, 
Sits  the  haughty  Creole  matron  with  her  daughters  and 

her  slaves; 

But  her  eye  no  longer  flashes  with  the  fire  it  held  of  late, 
For,  alas  !  the  Yankee  Vandals  thunder  at  the  city  gate. 
Proud  on  Mississippi's  waters,  looming  o'er  the  dark  levee, 
Ride  the  gallant  Northern  war-ships,  floats  the  Banner  of 

the  Free ! 
While  a  calm-eyed  Captain  paces  through  a  sea  of  scowl-* 

ing  men, 

To  demand  the  full  surrender  of  the  city,  there  and  then. 
Yet  the  haughty  Creole  lady's  sorest  sorrow  lies  not  there  : 
'T  is  not  that  the  Yankee  mudsills  will  pollute  her  sacred 

air ;  — 

Though  her  delicate  fibres  shudder  doubtless  at  the  dread 
ful  thought 
That  her  soft  and  fragrant  breathings  may  by  Yankee  lips 

be  caught ; — 
No !   the   cut   of  all  unkindest  —  that  which   makes   her 

heart  dilate  — • 
Is,  her  knights  have  all  "  skedaddled,"  and  have  left  her 

to  her  fate ! 
Yes ;  no   strength  of  smash  or  julep,  nor   the    cocktail's 

bitterest  heat, 
Kept  those  recreant  warriors  steady  when  they  saw  the 

Yankee  fleet ; 
All  their  desperate  prowess  vanished  like  a  mist  before 

the  moon,  — 
Left  the   Creole   maid   and  matron,  even  left  the  dear 

Quadroon ! 


Iio     THE  BALLAD   OF  THE  CRESCENT  CITY. 

m. 

In  the  City  of  the  Crescent,  by  red  Mississippi's  waves, 
Walks  the  haughty  Creole  matron  with  her  daughters  and 

her  slaves ; 
Freedom's  flag  is  floating  o'er   her,  Freedom's  sons   she 

passes  by, 
And    the    olden    scornful    fire    burns    rekindled    in    her 

eye. 
How  dare  Freedom  thus  insult  her  ?     How  dare  mudsills 

walk  the  pave 
Whose  each  stone  to  her  is  hallowed  by  the  toil-sweat  of 

the  slave  ? 

"  What  ?  you  call  that  rag  your  banner  ?     You,  sir,  hire 
ling,  hound,  I  mean  ! 
Thus  I  spit  upon  your  emblem !     Let  your  churl's  blood 

wash  it  clean  ! 
Well  you  wear  your  liveried  jacket,  hireling  bravo  that 

you  are ! 
Lackey,  paid  to  rob  and  murder  in  a  thin  disguise  of 

war  !  " 
Thus,  with  many  a  taunting  gesture,  speaks  she  to  the 

Northern  braves, 
As  she  flaunts  along  the  sidewalk  with  her  daughters  and 

her  slaves ! 
Naught  reply  the  Northern  soldiers,  smiling,  though  they 

feel  the  stings 
Of  the  foul  and  meretricious  taunts  the   Southern   lady 

flings ; 
So  she  passes,  while  the  venom  from  her  fragrant  mouth 

still  slips 
Like  the  loathsome  toads  and  lizards  from  the  enchanted 

maiden's  lips  ; 
And   her   spotless   soul   joys,  doubtless,  soft   her    modest 

bosom  beats, 
That   she  so   has   aped   the   harlot  in   her    city's    public 

streets ! 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE  CRESCENT  CITY.     1 1 1 

IV. 

In  the  City  of  the  Crescent,  by  red  Mississippi's  waves, 
Walks  the  haughty  Creole  lady  with  her  daughters  and 

her  slaves  ; 

But  her  eye  no  longer  flashes  with  its  wonted  fire  of  hate ; 
Her  tongue  is  strangely  silent  now,  and  modest  is  her 

gait ; 

With  quiet  mien  and  humble  she  passes  soldiers  by, 
Nor  ever  on  our  country's  flag  turns  a  defiant  eye. 
What  wondrous  glamour  so  hath  changed   the  haughty 

lady's  mien  ? 
The   crime  of  her  rebellious  heart  hath   she   in    sorrow 

seen  ? 
Or  has   her   spotless  bosom  owned   that   Yankees    there 

may  be 

Worthy  of  even  a  Creole's  love  ?  Is  hers  no  longer  free  ? 
No ;  it  is  none  of  these  have  tamed  the  lady's  rebel  soul ; 
On  each  mudsill  she,  certes,  still  breathes  inward  curse 

and  dole ! 
And  as  for  love,  save  for  her  knight,  no  love  her  heart 

can  stir, 

Since  o'er  a  julep's  sugared  brink  he  swore  to  die  for  her; 
For  though  he  died  not,  but  preferred  another  field  to 

seek, 
'T  was   only,   as   she  knows,  because   the  julep  was   too 

weak  ! 
'T  was  none   of  these  !     A  sterner  cause  for  change  of 

mien  had  she  ! 

For  spitting  once  too  often  at  the  Banner  of  the  Free, 
And  once  too  oft  through  her  pure  lips  the  venom  letting 

loose, 

The  haughty  Creole  dame  was  shown  into  —  the   Cala 
boose  ! 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


112  NEW  ORLEANS    WON  BACK. 

NEW  ORLEANS  WON  BACK. 
A  LAY  FOR  OUR  SAILORS. 

BY   ROBERT   LOWELL. 

[The  opening  words  of  the  burden  are  a  scrap  of  an  old  song 
caught  up.] 

CATCH  —  Oh !  up  in  the  morning,  up  in  the  morning, 

Up  in  the  morning  early ! 

There  lay  the  town  that  our  guns  looked  down, 
With  its  streets  all  dark  and  surly. 

God  made  three  youths  to  walk  unscathed 

In  the  furnace  seven  times  hot ; 
And  when  smoky  flames  our  squadron  bathed, 

Amid  horrors  of  shell  and  shot, 
Then,  too,  it  was  God  that  brought  them  through 

That  death-crowded  thoroughfare  : 
So  now,  at  six  bells,  the  church  pennons  flew, 

And  the  crews  went  all  to  prayer. 
Thank  God  !  thank  God  !  our  men  won  the  fight, 

Against  forts,  and  fleets,  and  flame  : 
Thank  God  !  they  have  given  our  flag  its  right, 
In  a  town  that  brought  it  shame. 

Oh  !  up  in  the  morning,  up  in  the  morning, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ! 
Our  flag  hung  there,  in  the  fresh,  still  air, 
With  smoke  floating  soft  and  curly. 

Ten  days  for  the  deep  ships  at  the  bar; 

Six  days  for  the  mortar-fleet, 
That  battered  the  great  forts  from  afar ; 

And  then,  to  that  deadly  street ! 
A  flash !      Our  strong  ships  snapped  the  boom 

To  the  fire-rafts  and  the  forts, 


NEW  ORLEANS    WON  BACK.  113 

To  crush  and  crash,  and  flash  and  gloom, 

And  iron  beaks  fumbling  their  ports. 
From  the  dark  came  the  raft,  in  flame  and  smoke  ; 

In  the  dark  came  the  iron  beak ; 
But  our  sailors'  hearts  were  stouter  than  oak, 
And  the  false  foe's  iron  weak. 

Oh  !  up  in  the  morning,  up  in  the  morning, 

Up  in  the  morning  early ! 

Before  they  knew,  they  had  burst  safe  through, 
And  left  the  forts,  grim  and  burly. 

Though  it  be  brute's  work,  not  man's,  to  tear 

Live  limbs  like  shivered  wood  ; 
Yet,  to  dare,  and  to  stand,  and  to  take  death  for  share, 

Are  as  much  as  the  angels  could. 
Our  men  towed  the  blazing  rafts  ashore ; 

They  battered  the  great  rams  down ; 
Scarce  a  wreck  floated  where  was  a  fleet  before, 

When  our  ships  came  up  to  the  town. 
There  were  miles  of  batteries  yet  to  be  dared, 

But  they  quenched  these  all,  as  in  play  ; 
Then  with  their  yards  squared,  their  guns'  mouths  bared, 
They  held  the  great  town  at  bay. 

Oh  !  up  in  the  morning,  up  in  the  morning, 

Up  in  the  morning  early ! 
Our  stout  ships  came  through  shell,  shot,  and 

flame, 
But  the  town  will  not  always  be  surly ; 

For  this  Crescent  City  takes  to  its  breast 

The  Father  of  Waters'  tide  ; 
And  here  shall  the  wealth  of  our  world,  in  the  West, 

Meet  wealth  of  the  world  beside : 
Here  the  date-palm  and  the  olive  find 

A  near  and  equal  sun  ; 
And  a  hundred  broad,  deep  rivers  wind 

To  the  summer-sea  in  one : 
8 


114  THE  VARUNA. 

Here  the  Fall  steals  all  old  Winter's  ice, 

And  the  Spring  steals  all  his  snow ; 
While  he  but  smiles  at  their  artifice, 
And  like  his  own  nature  go. 

Oh  !  up  in  the  morning,  up  in  the  morning, 

Up  in  the  morning  early ! 
May  that  flag   float  here   till   the  earth's  last 

year, 
With  the  lake  mists,  fair  and  pearly. 


THE    VARUNA. 

Sunk  April  24^,  1882.* 

BY    GEORGE   H.    BOKKH. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna  ? 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  deeds  she  has  done  ? 
Who  shall  not  hear,  while  the  brown  Mississippi 

Rushes  along  from  the  snow  to  the  sun  ? 

Crippled  and  leaking  she  entered  the  battle, 

Sinking  and  burning  she  fought  through  the  fray ; 

Crushed  were  her  sides,  and  the  waves  ran  across  her, 
Ere,  like  a  death-wounded  lion  at  bay, 

Sternly  she  closed  in  the  last  fatal  grapple, 
Then  in  her  triumph  moved  grandly  away. 

Five  of  the  rebels,  like  satellites  round  her, 
Burned  in  her  orbit  of  splendor  and  fear ; 

One,  like  the  pleiad  of  mystical  story, 

Shot,  terror-stricken,  beyond  her  dread  sphere. 

We  who  are  waiting  with  crowns  for  the  victors, 
Though  we  should  offer  the  wealth  of  our  store, 

*  After  sinking  five  of  the  enemy  in  the  naval  battle  below  New 
Orleans. 


THE  NEW  BALLAD  OF  LORD  LOVELL.      115 

Load  the  Varuna  from  deck  down  to  kelson, 
Still  would  be  niggard,  such  tribute  to  pour 

On  courage  so  boundless.      It  beggars  possession,  — 
It  knocks  for  just  payment  at  heaven's  bright  door! 

Cherish  the  heroes  who  fought  the  Varuna ; 

Treat  them  as  kings  if  they  honor  your  way ; 
Succor  and  comfort  the  sick  and  the  wounded  ; 

Oh !  for  the  dead  let  us  all  kneel  to  pray. 


THE  NEW  BALLAD  OF  LORD  LOVELL.* 

LORD  LOVELL  he  sat  in  St.  Charles's  Hotel,  — 

In  St.  Charles's  Hotel  sat  he  ; 
As  fine  a  case  of  a  Southern  swell 

As  ever  you  'd  wish  to  see  —  see  —  see, 
As  ever  you  'd  wish  to  see. 

Lord  Lovell  the  town  had  vowed  to  defend : 

A-waving  his  sword  on  high, 
He  swore  that  his  last  ounce  of  powder  he  'd  spend, 

And  in  the  last  ditch  he  'd  die. 

He  swore  by  black  and  he  swore  by  blue, 

He  swore  by  the  stars  and  bars, 
That  never  he  'd  fly  from  a  Yankee  crew 

While  he  was  a  son  of  Mars. 

He  had  fifty  thousand  gallant  men,  — 

Fifty  thousand  men  had  he, 
Who  had  all  sworn  with  him  that  they  'd  never 

Surrender  to  any  tarnation  Yankee. 

*  Mansfield  Lovell,  of  New  York,  commanded  the  Rebel  troops 
at  New  Orleans,  and,  on  the  approach  of  the  national  fleet  and 
army  to  that  place,  "  led  his  forces  out  of  the  town." 


Il6    THE  NEW  BALLAD   OF  LORD  LOVELL. 

He  had  forts  that  no  Yankee  alive  could  take ; 

He  had  iron-clad  boats  a  score ; 
And  batteries  all  around  the  Lake,* 

And  all  along  the  river-shore. 

Sir  Farragut  came  with  a  mighty  fleet,  — 

With  a  mighty  fleet  came  he ; 
And  Lord  Lovell  instanter  began  to  retreat, 

Before  the  first  boat  he  could  see. 

His  fifty  thousand  gallant  men 

Dwindled  down  to  thousands  six  ; 
They  heard  a  distant  cannon,  and  then 

Commenced  a-cutting  their  sticks. 

"  Oh,  tarry,  Lord  Lovell !  "   Sir  Farragut  cried ; 

"  Oh,  tarry,  Lord  Lovell !  "  said  he  ; 
"  I  rather  think  not,"  Lord  Lovell  replied, 

"  For  I  'm  in  a  great  hurry." 

"  I  like  the  drinks  at  St.  Charles's  Hotel, 
But  I  never  could  bear  strong  Porter, 

Especially  when  it 's  served  on  the  shell, 
Or  mixed  in  an  iron  mortar." 

"  I  reckon  you  're  right,"  Sir  Farragut  said  ; 

"  I  reckon  you  're  right,"  said  he  ; 
"  For  if  my  Porter  should  fly  to  your  head, 

A  terrible  smash  there  'd  be." 

Oh,  a  wonder  it  was  to  see  them  run ! 

A  wonderful  thing  to  see ; 
And  the  Yankees  sailed  up  without  shooting  a  gun, 

And  captured  their  great  citie. 

Lord  Lovell  kept  running  all  day  and  night,  — 
Lord  Lovell  a-running  kept  he ; 


GINERAL  BUTLER.  117 

For  he  swore  lie  couldn't  abide  the  sight 
Of  the  gun  of  a  live  Yankee. 

When  Lord  Lovell's  life  was  brought  to  a  close 

By  a  sharp-shooting  Yankee  gunner, 
From  his  head  there  sprouted  a  red,  red  nose, 

From  his  feet  —  a  Scarlet  Runner. 


GINERAL  BUTLER. 

[LINES  KIT  TU  RICHARD  YEADON,  A  RANK,  PIZEN  REBBEL,  WHU 
HES  OFFERED  TEX  THAOUSAND  DOLLARS  FUR  THE  HED  OV 

GINERAL    BUTLER.      I   ONLY    WISH    THE   AMERIKAN   EGLE   MAY 
LIVE   TILL   HE   GITS   IT!] 

BY    CHARITY    GRIMES. 

Yu  offer  us  ten  thaousand  fur  the  heel  ov  Butler,  du  ye  ? 
Wa'al,  I  vaow  I  wunder  at  it  !     But  yu  may  jest  spare 

yure  pains. 

I  tell  yu  (ef  yu  know  enuff  tu  git  the  idee  thru  yu), 
Yu'd  better  wish,   a  tarnal  site,  fur  Gineral  Butler's 
brains  ! 

Here  's  a  fust-rate  chance  tu  make  a  pile  !  —  a  bribe  fur 

human  natur  ! 
Naow  is  the  time  fur  Judases  tu  clap  thare  hands  and 

larf; 

Ten  thaousand  dollars  offered  fur  the  sarvice  ov  a  traitor  ? 
Why  thare  's  menny  a  poor  scoundrel  thet  wood  du  the 
work  fur  half! 


Want  the  hed  ov  Gineral  Butler  !     Wa'al,  I  never  !  't  is 

surprisin  ! 
Yu  fellers  daown  in  Dixie  must  be  fallin  off  from  grace. 


Il8  RHODE    ISLAND   TO    THE  SOUTH. 

Not  hevin    enny  decent  hed  (that  fact   thare  's   no  dis- 

guisin), 
Yu  want  tu  take  yure  nabor's,  es  ef  that  wood  help 

yure  case  ! 
Ten  thaousand  dollars  offered  !      Specie  payment  is 't,  I 

wunder  ? 

Bein  a  Yankee  born,  yu  know,  p'r'aps  I  am  kind  o'  cute. 
Yure  promises    air    fair    enuff;    but   fokes  du    sumtimes 

blunder, 

And  them  Confederate  notes  ov  yourn,  —  't  ain't  every 
wun  they  'd  suit ! 

Ten  thaousand  dollars    offered   fur   the   hed   ov  Butler! 

Reely  ! 
Haow  long  is  't  sense  yu  larfed  et  him,  and  called  him 

"  Pickayune  ?  " 

Did  yu  find  he  was  tu  big  a  coin  fur  yu  tu  hold  genteely  ? 
Or  has  he  put  yure  notes  ov  war  a  leetle  aout  ov  tune  ? 

Yu  offer  us  ten  thaousand  fur  the  hed  ov  Butler,  du  yu  ? 
Wa'al,  I  don't  mutch  wunder  at  it, — but  yu  may  jest 

spare  yure  pains  ; 

But  I  '11  tell  yu  (ef  yu  know  enuff  to  git  the  idee  thru  yu), 
Yu  'd  better  (fur  yu  need  'em)  wish  fur  Gineral  Butler's 
brains  ! 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


RHODE  ISLAND   TO  THE  SOUTH. 

BY   GEN.    F.    W.    LANDER. 

ONCE  on  New  England's  bloody  heights, 

And  o'er  a  Southern  plain, 
Our  fathers  fought  for  sovereign  rights, 

That  working  men  might  reign. 

And  by  that  only  Lord  we  serve, 
The  great  Jehovah's  name  ; 


THE  PICKET  GUARD. 

By  those  sweet  lips  that  ever  nerve 
High  hearts  to  deeds  of  fame  ; 

By  all  that  makes  the  man  a  king, 
The  household  hearth  a  throne,  — 

Take  back  the  idle  scoff  ye  fling, 
Where  freedom  claims  its  own. 

For  though  our  battle  hope  was  vague 

Upon  Manassas'  plain, 
Where  Slocum  stood  with  gallant  Sprague, 

And  gave  his  life  in  vain,  — 

Before  we  yield  the  holy  trust 

Our  old  forefathers  gave, 
Or  wrong  New  England's  hallowed  dust, 

Or  grant  the  wrongs  ye  crave,  — 

We  '11  print  in  kindred  gore  so  deep 

The  shore  we  love  to  tread, 
That  woman's  eyes  shall  fail  to  weep 

O'er  man's  unnumbered  dead. 


THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

"  ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
*T  is  nothing :    a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 
Not  an  officer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming  ; 


120  THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping  ; 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack  ;   his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep,  — 

For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her  ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  —  when  low,  murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

WTas  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  :    "  Ha  !  Mary,  good-bye  !  " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night,  — 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  — 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT.    12  I 
THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT. 

BY   H.    H.    BROWNELL,    U.    S.    N. 

HERE  they  come  !  —  't  is  the  Twelfth,  you  know,  — 

The  colonel  is  just  at  hand ; 
The  ranks  close  up,  to  the  measured  flow 

Of  music  cheery  and  grand. 
Glitter  on  glitter,  row  by  row, 
The  steady  bayonets,  on  they  go 

For  God  and  the  right  to  stand  : 
Another  thousand  to  front  the  foe  ! 
And  to  die  —  if  it  must  be  even  so  — 

For  the  dear  old  fatherland  ! 

O  trusty  and  true  !     O  gay,  warm  heart ! 

O  manly  and  earnest  brow  ! 
Here,  in  the  hurrying  street,  we  part  — 

To  meet  —  ah  !  where  and  how  ? 
O  ready  and  stanch  !  who,  at  war's  alarm, 
On  lonely  hill-side  and  mountain-farm 

Have  left  the  axe  and  the  plough  ! 
That  every  tear  were  a  holy  charm, 
To  guard,  with  honor,  some  head  from  harm, 
'  And  to  quit  some  generous  vow  ! 
For,  of  valiant  heart  and  of  sturdy  arm 

Was  never  more  need  than  now. 

Never  a  nobler  morn  to  the  bold, 

For  God  and  for  country's  sake  ! 
Lo  !  a  flag,  so  haughtily  unrolled 
On  a  hundred  foughten  fields  of  old, 

Now  flaunts  in  a  pirate's  wake  ! 
The  lion  coys  in  each  blazoned  fold, 

And  leers  on  the  blood-barred  snake ! 

O  base  and  vain !  that,  for  grudge  and  gain, 
Could  a  century's  feud  renew,  — 


122         THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT. 

Could  hoard  your  hate  for  the  coward  chance 
When  a  nation  reeled  in  a  wilder  dance 

Of  death,  than  the  Switzer  drew ! 
We  have  borne  and  borne  —  and  may  bear  again 

With  wrong,  but  if  wrong  from  you. 

Welcome,  the  sulphury  cloud  in  the  sky  ! 

Welcome,  the  crimson  rain  ! 
Act  but  the  dream  ye  dared  to  form, 
Strike  a  single  spark  !  —  and  the  storm 
Of  serried  bayonets  sweeping  by, 

Shall  swell  to  a  hurricane  ! 

O  blind  and  bitter !   that  could  not  know, 
Even  in  fight,  a  caitiff-bknv, 
(Foully  dealt  on  a  hard-set  foe,) 

Ever  is  under  wise  ; 
Ever  is  ghosted  with  after  fear,  — 
Ye  might  lesson  it,  — year  by  year, 

Looking,  with  fevered  eyes, 
For  sail  or  smoke  from  the  Breton  shore, 
Lest  a  land,  so  rudely  wronged  of  yore, 

In  flamy  revenge  should  rise  ! 

Office  at  outcry  !  —  ah  !  wretched  Flam  ! 

Vile  Farce  of  hammer  and  prate  ! 
Trade  !  bids  Darby  —  and  blood  !  smirks  Pam  — 
Little  ween  they,  each  courtly  Sham, 

Of  the  Terror  lying  in  wait ! 
Little  wot  of  the  web  he  spins, 
Their  Tempter  in  purple,  that  darkly  grins 

'Neath  his  stony  visor  of  state, 
O'er  Seas,  how  narrow  !  —  for,  whoso  wins, 
At  yon  base  Auction  of  Outs  and  Ins, 

The  rule  of  his  Dearest  Hate  ; 
Her  point  once  flashing  athwart  her  Kin's, 
And  the  reckoning,  ledgered  for  long,  begins,  — 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT.    123 

The  galling  Glories  and  envied  Sins 
Shall  buzz  in  a  rnesh-like  fate  ! 

Ay,  mate  your  meanest  !  —  ye  can  but  do 
That  permitted  ;   when.  Heaven  would  view 
How  Wrong,  self-branded,  her  rage  must  rue 
In  wreck  and  ashes  !  —  (such  scene  as  you, 

If  wise,  shall  Avitness  afar)  ; 
How  Guilt,  o'erblown,  her  crest  heaves  high, 
And  dares  the  injured,  with  taunt,  to  try 

Ordeal  of  Fire  in  war  ; 
Blindfold  and  brazen,  on  God  doth  call  — 
Then  grasps  in  horror,  the  glaring  ball, 

Or  treads  on  the  candent  bar ! 

Yet  a  little  !  —  and  men  shall  mark 
This  our  Moloch,  who  sate  so  stark, 
(These  hundred  winters  through  godless  dark 

Grinning  o'er  death  and  shame)  ; 
Marking  for  murder  each  unbowed  head, 
Throned  on  his  Ghizeh  of  bones,  and  fed 
Still  with  hearts  of  the  holy  dead,  — 
Naught  but  a  Spectre  foul  and  dread, 

Naught  but  a  hideous  Name ! 
At  last !  —  (ungloom,  stern  coffined  frown  ! 
Rest  thee,  Gray- Steel !  —  aye,  dead  Renown  ! 
In  flame  and  thunder,  by  field  and  town, 
The  Giant-Horror  is  going  down,  — 

Down  to  the  Home  whence  it  came  ! ) 

Deaf  to  the  Doom  that  waits  the  Beast, 
Still  would  she  share  the  Harlot's  Feast, 
And  drink  of  her  blood-grimed  Cup  ! 
Pause  !  —  the  Accursed,  on  yon  frenzied  shore, 
Buyeth  your  merchandise  never  more  ! 
Mark,  'mid  the  Fiery  Dew  that  drips, 
Redder,  faster,  through  black  Eclipse, 


124        TUE  MARCH  OF  THE  REGIMENT. 

How  Sodom,  to-night,  shall  sup ! 
(Thus  the  Kings,  in  Apocalypse, 
The  traders  of  souls,  and  crews  of  ships, 
Standing  afar,  with  pallid  lips, 

While  Babylon's  smoke  goes  up  !  ) 

Yet,  dree  your  weird  !  —  though  an  hour  may  blight, 

In  treason,  a  century's  fame  — 
Trust  Greed  and  Spite  !  —  sith  Reason  and  Right 

Lie  cold,  with  Honor  and  Shame ; 
And  learn  anon  —  as  on  that  dread  night 

When,  the  dead  around  and  the  deck  aflame, 
From  John  Paul's  lip  the  fierce  word  came,  — 

"  We  have  only  begun  to  fight !  " 

Ay,  't  is  at  hand  !  — -  foul  lips,  be  dumb  ! 
Our  Armageddon  is  yet  to  come  ! 
But  cheery  bugle  and  angry  drum, 

With  volleyed  rattle  and  roar, 
And  cannon  thunder-throb,  shall  be  drowned, 
That  day,  in  a  grander,  stormier  sound  ; 

The  Land,  from  mountain  to  shore, 
Hurling  shackle  and  scourge  and  stake 
Back  to  their  Lender  of  pit  and  lake ; 

('Twas  Tophet  leased  them  of  yore), — 
Hell,  in  her  murkiest  hold,  shall  quake, 

As  they  ring  on  the  damned  floor ! 
O  mighty  Heart !  thou  wast  long  to  wake,  — 
'T  is  thine,  to-morrow,  to  win  or  break 

In  a  deadlier  close  once  more,  — 
If  but  for  the  dear  and  glorious  sake 

Of  those  who  have  gone  beibre. 

O  Fair  and  Faithful !  that,  sun  by  sun, 
Slept  on  the  field,  or  lost  or  won,  — 
Children  dear  of  the  Holy  One  ! 
Rest  in  your  wintry  sod. 


THE  LOYAL  DEMOCRAT.  125 

Rest,  your  noble  devoir  is  done,  — 
Done  —  and  forever  !     Ours,  to-day, 
The  dreary  drift  and  the  frozen  clay 

By  trampling  armies  trod  ; 
The  smoky  shroud  of  the  War-Simoom, 
The  maddened  Crime  at  bay  with  her  Doom, 

And  fighting  it,  clod  by  clod. 
O  Calm  and  Glory  !  —  beyond  the  gloom, 
Above  the  bayonets  bend  and  bloom 

The  lilies  and  palms  of  God. 

Hartford  Evening  Press. 


THE  LOYAL  DEMOCRAT. 

BY  A.    J.    H.    DUGA3JXE. 

MOUTH  not  to  me  your  Union  rant, 
Nor  gloze  mine  ears  with  loyal  cant  ! 
Who  stands  this  day  in  freedom's  van, 
He  only  is  my  Union  man  ! 
Who  tramples  Slavery's  Gesler  hat, 
He  is  my  loyal  Democrat ! 

With  whips,  engirt  by  chains,  too  long 
We  strove  to  make  our  fasces  strong  ; 
When  rebel  hands  those  fasces  rend, 
Must  we  with  whips  and  chains  still  mend  ? 
If  "  Democrats  "  can  stoop  to  that, 
God  help  me  !  I'm  no  Democrat  ! 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  lines  are  drawn  this  hour 
'Twixt  manly  Right  and  despot  Power  ; 
Who  scowls  in  Freedom's  pathway  now 
Bears  "  tyrant  "  stamped  upon  his  brow  ; 
Who  skulks  aloof  or  shirks  his  part, 
Hath  "  slave  "  imprinted  in  his  heart. 


126  THE  LOYAL  DEMOCRAT. 

In  vain  of  "  Equal  Rights  "  ye  prate, 
Who  fawn  like  dogs  at  Slavery's  gate  ; 
Beyond  the  slave  each  slave-whip  smites, 
And  codes  for  blacks  are  laws  for  whites  ; 
The  chains  that  negro  limbs  encoil 
Reach  and  enslave  each  child  of  toil  ! 

O  Northern  men  !  when  will  ye  learn 
'T  is  labor  that  these  tyrants  spurn  ? 
'T  is  not  the  blood  or  skin  they  brand, 
But  every  poor  man's  toil-worn  hand ; 
And  ye  who  serve  them  —  knowing  this  — 
Deserve  the  slave-lash  that  ye  kiss  ! 

While  Northern  blood  remembrance  craves 
From  twice  ten  thousand  Southern  graves, 
Shall  freeborn  hearts  —  beneath  the  turf  — 
Lie  always  crushed  by  tramp  of  serf, 
And  pilgrims,  at  those  graves,  some  day, 
By  Slavery's  hounds  be  driven  away  ? 

The  green  grass  in  the  church-yard  waves  ; 
The  good  corn  grows  o'er  battle-graves  ; 
But,  oh  !  from  crimson  seeds  now  sown, 
What  crops  —  what  harvest  —  shall  be  grown  ? 
On  Shiloh's  plain  —  on  Roanoke's  sod  — 
What  fruits  shall  spring  from  blood,  O  God  ? 

Spring-time  is  here  !      The  past  now  sleeps  — 

The  present  sows  —  the  future  reaps  ! 

Who  plants  good  seed  in  Freedom's  span 

He  only  is  my  Union  man  ! 

Who  treads  the  weeds  of  Slavery  flat, 

He  is  my  loyal  Democrat ! 

May  2-'],  1862. 


THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE     1 27 


THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE.* 

WE  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand 
more, 

From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New  Eng 
land's  shore  ; 

We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives  and  chil 
dren  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent  tear ; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before : 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand 
more. 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  the  northern  sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may  descry; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in  pride  ; 
And  bayonets   in    the  sunlight  gleam,  and   bands  brave 

music  pour  : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand 

more. 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys,  where  the  growing  harvests 

shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into  line  ; 
And  children  from  their  mothers'  knees  are  pulling  at  the 

weeds, 
And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  country's 

needs ; 
And   a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 

door : 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand 

more. 

*  President  Lincoln  issued  a  proclamation,  July,  1862,  calling  for 
three  hundred  thousand  more  volunteers. 


128  THE  DAY  OF  GOD. 

You   have  called  us,  and  we  're.  coming,  by  Richmond's 
bloody  tide 

To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom's  sake,  our  brothers'  bones 
beside  ; 

Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the  mur 
derous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 

Six  hundred   thousand    loyal    men   and   true    have   gone 
before : 

We  are  coining,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand 
more. 

Evening  Post. 


THE  DAY  OF  GOD. 

BY    GEORGE    S.    BUKLEIGH. 

ALL  blessings  walk  with  onward  feet ; 

No  day  dawns  twice,  no  night  comes  back ; 
The  car  of  doom,  or  slow  or  fleet, 

Rolls  down  an  unreturned  track. 

What  we  have  been,  we  cannot  be ; 

Forward,  inexorable  Fate 
Points  mutely  to  her  own  decree, 

Beyond  her  hour  is  all  too  late. 

God  reaps  his  judgment  field  to-day, 
And  sifts  the  darnel  from  the  wheat ; 

A  whirlwind  sweeps  the  chaff  away, 
And  fire  the  refuge  of  deceit. 

Once  in  a  century  only  blooms 
The  flower  of  fortune  so  sublime 

As  now  hangs  budded  o'er  the  tombs 
Of  the  great  fathers  of  old  time. 


THE  DAY  OF  GOD.  129 

Eternal  Justice  sits  on  high 

And  gathers  in  her  awful  scales 
Our  shame  and  glory  —  Slavery's  lie 

And  Freedom's  starry  countervails. 

When  falls  her  sword,  as  fall  it  must 

In  red  Bellona's  fiery  van, 
Let  the  old  anarch  bite  the  dust, 

And  rise  the  rescued  rights  of  Man. 

In  vain  a  nation's  bloody  sweat, 

The  sob  of  myriad  hearts  in  vain, 
If  the  scotched  snake  may  live  to  set 

Its  venom  in  our  flesh  again. 

Priests  of  an  altar  fired  once  more 

For  Freedom  in  His  awful  name, 
Who  trod  the  wine-press,  dripping  gore, 

And  gave  the  Law  in  lurid  flame,  — 

Oh,  not  in  human  wrath,  that  wreaks 
Revenge  for  wrong,  and  blood  for  blood 

Not  in  the  fiery  will  that  seeks 

Brute  power  in  battle's  stormy  flood,  — 

Go  forth,  redeemers  of  a  land, 

Sad,  stern,  and  fearless  for  the  Lord, 

Solemn  and  calm,  with  firm  right  hand 
Laid  to  the  sacrificial  sword. 

The  lords  of  treason  and  the  whip 
Have  called  you  to  the  dread  appeal, 

From  the  loud  cannon's  fevered  lip, 
And  the  wide  flash  of  bristling  steel. 

If  now  the  echo  of  that  voice 

Shake  down  their  prison-house  of  wrong, 


130          THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

They  have  their  own  perfidious  choice ; 
For  God  is  good,  and  Truth  is  strong. 

Their  steel  draws  lightning,  and  the  bolt 

But  fires  their  own  volcanic  mine ; 
God  in  their  vineyard  of  Revolt 

Treads  out  his  sacramental  wine ! 

Be  this  our  conquest,  —  as  they  gave 
Their  all  to  Treason  and  the  Chain, 

We  snap  the  fetter  from  the  slave, 

And  make  our  sole  revenge  their  gain  ! 

Independent,  August,  1862. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862. 

BY   JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And  calm  and  patient  nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though  o'er  her  bloom  and  greenness  sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 

Through  harvest-happy  farms, 
And  still  she  wears  her  fruits  and  flowers 

Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  means  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain, 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862.  131 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 

Arid  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 
But  even  paced  come  round  the  years, 

And  Nature  changes  not. 


She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 

With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 
She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 

The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still  in  the  cannon's  pause  we  hear 

Her  sweet  thanksgiving  psalm  ; 
Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 

She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 

The  fires  that  blast  and  burn ; 
For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow, 

She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees,  with  clearer  eye  than  ours, 

The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 
The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 

And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

Oh !  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  eyes  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies  ! 

Oh  !  give  to  us  her  finer  ear ! 

Above  this  stormy  din ; 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


13  ^  THE  CRIPPLE  AT  THE    GATE. 


THE  CRIPPLE  AT  THE  GATE  * 

LOOK  !  how  the  hoofs  and  wheels  to-day 

Scatter  the  dust  on  the  broad  highway, 

Where  Beauty  and  Fashion,  and  Wealth  and  Pride 

On  saddle  and  cushion  serenely  ride  ! 

The  very  steeds  have  a  conscious  prance 

Of  pride  in  their  elegant  freight  ! 

Love  and  laughter  like  jewels  slip 

From  the  sparkling  eye  and  the  merry  lip ; 

You  never  would  think  that  the  Nation's  life 

Hung  on  the  thread  of  a  desperate  strife, 

Unless  from  these  you  should  turn,  by  chance, 

To  the  Cripple  at  the  Gate. 

Weary  and  footsore,  and  ragged  and  soiled, 

Through  the  summer  glare  he  has  slowly  toiled 

Along  the  edge  of  the  broad  highway, 

Since  the  early  dawn  of  the  westering  day ; 

His  rags  are  flecked  with  the  dusty  foam 

That  flew  from  the  gilded  bits 

Of  the  champing  steeds  that  passed  him  by  ; 

And  a  haggard  shadow  is  in  his  eye, 

But  it  is  not  the  gloom  of  an  envious  pain  ! 

He  has  left  a  limb  on  the  battle-plain, 

And  to  win  his  way  to  his  distant  home 

At  my  gate,  a  Beggar,  he  sits ! 

*  We  all  remember  one  of  the  sad  evidences  of  the  unavoidable 
insufficiency  of  our  War  Department  to  the  demands  made  upon  it 
by  a  gigantic  and  protracted  struggle  which  spread  over  such  vast 
distances  and  employed  so  many  men,  —  the  sight  of  discharged 
soldiers,  sometimes  wounded  or  enfeebled  by  disease,  without  the 
means  of  reaching  their  homes,  which  often  were  hundreds  of  miles 
away.  From  this  seeming  reproach  we  were  at  last  relieved  by  the 
efforts  of  that  noble  organization,  the  Sanitary  Commission. 


THE    CRIPPLE  AT  THE    GATE.         133 

He  tells  me  his  tale  in  a  simple  way : 

"  I  had  nothing,"  he  says,  "  except  my  pay, 

And  a  wife  and  four  little  girls,  and  so 

I  sent  all  my  money  to  them,  you  know  ! 

When  I  lost  my  limb,  Sir  —  but  that  I  'in  lame, 

I  do  not  complain,  for,  you  see, 

'T  is  the  fortune  of  war,  and  it  might  be  worse ; 

And  I  'd  lose  the  other  to  stop  the  curse 

Of  this  terrible  strife  !  —  But  I  meant  to  say, 

When  I  left  the  hospital  t'  other  day, 

I  did  think  I  had  a  kind  of  a  claim 

To  be  sent  to  my  village  free. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  hard  yourself,  Sir  ?      True, 

There  's  a  hundred  dollars  of  bounty  due 

In  three  years,  or  when  the  war 's  ended ;  but  how 

Long  may  that  be  —  can  you  tell  me  now  V 

I  did  not  enlist  for  bounty,  I  trust,  — 

My  conscience  I  never  have  sold ; 

But  how  does  it  look  for  a  soldier  to  '  tramp,' 

Begging  his  way  like  a  vagabond  scamp, 

From  the  fields  where  he  often  risked  his  life, 

To  the  home  where  he  left  his  babes  and  wife, 

In  a  uniform  made  of  tatters  and  dust 

Instead  of  the  '  blue  and  gold  '? ' 

"  Whose  fault  this  is,  Sir,  I  do  not  know," 

Said  the  wayworn  man  as  he  rose  to  go  ; 

"  But  of  this,  alas  !  I  am  sure  —  the  sight 

Of  a  soldier  returning  in  such  a  plight 

To  the  home  whence,  a  few  short  months  ago, 

He  marched  in  a  gallant  band, 

With  music,  and  banners,  and  shining  steel, 

Will  dull  more  ears  to  the  battle-peal, 

And  cause  more  bosoms  with  doubt  to  swell, 

Than  the  secret  traitor's  deadliest  spell. 

Do'nt  you  see  yourself,  Sir,  it  must  be  so  V  " 

And  he  sighed  as  I  held  out  my  hand. 


134-  WANTED  —  A  MAN. 

Lofty  carriage  and  low  coupe 

Still  whirl  the  dust  on  the  broad  highway ; 

Beauty  and  Fashion,  and  Wealth  and  Pride 

Still  through  the  roseate  twilight  ride, 

With  love,  and  laughter,  and  prancing  steed, 

As  if  Pleasure  were  all  life's  fate. 

But  I  gaze  no  more  on  the  joyous  train, 

For  my  eye  is  fixed  with  a  steadfast  strain 

On  the  tattered  soldier's  halting  stride, 

Till  his  tall  form  sinks  down  the  dark  hill-side ; 

Then  I  cry,  "  Thank  God  !  he  hath  now  no  need 

To  beg  at  the  stranger's  gate  ! " 

Harpers1   Weekly. 


WANTED  — A  MAN. 

BY   EDMUND    C.    STEDMAN. 

BACK  from  the  trebly  crimson'd  field 

Terrible  words  are  thunder-tost ; 
Full  of  the  wrath  that  will  not  yield, 

Full  of  revenge  for  battles  lost ! 

Hark  to  their  echo  as  it  crost 
The  Capital,  making  faces  wan  : 

"  End  this  murderous  holocaust ; 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Give  us  a  man  of  God's  own  mould, 

Born  to  marshal  his  fellow-men ; 
One  whose  fame  is  not  bought  and  sold 

At  the  stroke  of  a  politician's  pen ; 

Give  us  the  man  of  thousands  ten, 
Fit  to  do  as  well  as  to  plan  ; 

Give  us  a  rally  ing-cry,  and  then,  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAX  ! 


WANTED  — A  MAN.  135 

"  No  leader  to  shirk  the  boasting  foe, 

And  to  march  and  countermarch  our  brave, 
Till  they  fade  like  ghosts  in  the  marshes  low, 

And  swamp-grass  covers  each  nameless  grave  ; 

Nor  another,  whose  fatal  banners  wave 
Aye  in  Disaster's  shameful  van  ; 

Nor  another,  to  bluster,  and  lie,  and  rave ;  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Hearts  are  mourning  in  the  North, 

While  the  sister  rivers  seek  the  main, 
Red  with  our  life-blood  flowing  forth, — 

Who  shall  gather  it  up  again  ? 

Though  we  march  to  the  battle-plain 
Firmly  as  when  the  strife  began, 

Shall  all  our  offering  be  in  vain  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Is  there  never  one  in  all  the  land, 

One  on  whose  might  the  Cause  may  lean  ? 
Are  all  the  common  men  so  grand, 

And  all  the  titled  ones  so  mean  ? 

What  if  your  failure  may  have  been 
In  trying  to  make  good  bread  from  bran  — 

From  worthless  metal  a  weapon  keen  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  find  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Oh,  we  will  follow  him  to  the  death, 

Where  the  foeman's  fiercest  columns  are ! 
Oh,  we  will  use  our  latest  breath, 

Cheei-Jng  for  every  sacred  star ! 

His  to  marshal  us  nigh  and  far, 
Ours  to  battle,  as  patriots  can 

When  a  Hero  leads  the  Holy  War !  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! " 

SEPTEMBER  8, 1862. 

New  York  Tribune. 


1 3  6  FREDERICKSB  UR  GIL 


FREDERICKSBURGH. 

BY   W.    F.    W. 

EIGHTEEN  hundred  and  sixty-two,  — 

That  is  the  number  of  wounded  men 
Who,  if  the  telegraph's  tale  be  true, 

Reached  Washington  City  but  yester  e'en. 

And  it  is  but  a  handful,  the  telegrams  add, 

To  those  who  are  coming  by  boats  and  by  cars ; 

Weary  and  wounded,  dying  and  sad  ; 

Covered  —  but  only  in  front  —  with  scars. 

Some  are  wounded  by  Minie  shot, 

Others  are  torn  by  the  hissing  shell, 
As  it  burst  upon  them  as  fierce  and  as  hot 

As  a  demon  spawned  in  a  traitor's  hell. 

Some  are  pierced  by  the  sharp  bayonet, 
Others  are  crushed  by  the  horses'  hoof; 

Or  fell  'neath  the  shower  of  iron  Avhich  met 
Them  as  hail  beats  down  on  an  open  roof. 

Shall  I  tell  what  they  did  to  meet  this  fate  ? 

Why  was  this  living  death  their  doom  ? 
Why  did  they  fall  to  this  piteous  state 

'Neath  the  rifle's  crack  and  the  cannon's  boom  ? 

Orders  arrived,  and  the  river  they  crossed ; 

Built  the  bridge  in  the  enemy's  face ; 
No  matter  how  many  were  shot  and  lost, 

And  floated  —  sad  corpses  —  away  from  the  place. 

Orders  they  heard,  and  they  scaled  the  height, 
Climbing  right  "  into  the  jaws  of  death  ;  " 


FREDERICKSB  UR  OH.  1 3  7 

Each  man  grasping  his  rifle-piece  tight, 
Scarcely  pausing  to  draw  his  breath. 

Sudden  flashed  on  them  a  sheet  of  flame 
From  hidden  fence  and  from  ambuscade ; 

A  moment  more  —  (they  say  this  is  fame,)  — 
A  thousand  dead  men  on  the  grass  were  laid. 

Fifteen  thousand  in  wounded  and  killed, 
At  least,  is  "  our  loss,"  the  newspapers  say. 

This  loss  to  our  army  must  surely  be  filled 
Against  another  great  battle-day. 

"  Our  loss  !  "     Whose  loss  ?     Let  demagogues  say 
That  the  Cabinet,  President,  all  are  in  wrong  : 

What  do  the  orphans  and  widows  pray  ? 
What  is  the  burden  of  their  sad  song  ? 

'T  is  their  loss  !     But  the  tears  in  their  weeping  eyes 
Hide  Cabinet,  President,  Generals,  —  all ; 

And  they  only  can  see  a  cold  form  that  lies 
On  the  hillside  slope,  by  that  fatal  wall. 

They  cannot  discriminate  men  or  means,  — 
They  only  demand  that  this  blundering  cease. 

In  their  frenzied  grief  they  would  end  such  scenes, 
Though  that  end  be  —  even  with  traitors  —  peace. 

Is  thy  face  from  thy  people  turned,  O  God  ? 

Is  thy  arm  for  the  Nation  no  longer  strong  ? 
We  cry  from  our  homes  —  the  dead  cry  from  the  sod  — 

How  long,  O  our  righteous  God  !  how  long  ? 

NEW  YORK,  December  17, 1862. 


138  "MY  MARYLAND.' 


«  MY  MAE YL AND."  * 

An  me  !  I  'vc  had  enough  of  thee, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 
Dear  land,  thou  art  too  dear  for  me, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 
I  '11  take  the  nearest  ford  and  go, 
I  '11  leave  thee,  darling,  to  the  foe ; 
But  do  not  let  him  kick  me  so, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

You  've  dashed  my  hopes,  ungrateful  State, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 
Go !  bless  your  stars  I  came  too  late, 

Maryland,  you  understand  ! 
I  meant  to  dress  you  well  in  black, 
And  scar  you  with  the  battle's  track, 
And  I  had  scourges  for  your  back, 

Maryland,  my  contraband  ! 

Oh,  where  are  Longstreet,  Hill,  and  Lee  ? 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 
And  "  Stonewall "  Jackson,  where  is  he  ? 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 
Four  coat-tails  streaming  in  the  breeze, 
And  that  is  all  a  body  sees ; 
Better  than  dangling  from  the  trees, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

Gray  geese  are  flying  southward,  ho! 
Maryland,  O  Maryland  ! 

*  This  parody  of  the  most  spirited  and  most  popular  of  the 
Rebel  Songs  celebrates  the  failure  of  the  insurgent  forces  to  take 
and  hold  Maryland,  which  was  General  Lee's  object  in  his  north 
ward  march,  and  which  was  defeated  by  the  battles  of  South  Moun 
tain  and  Antie'am. 


BOSTON  HYMN.  139 

It 's  getting  cold  up  there,  you  know, 

Maryland,  O  Maryland  ! 
I  should  have  thought  it  rather  warm,  — 
South  Mountain  yonder  took  by  storm, 
Antietam  yielded  in  alarm,  — 

Maryland,  O  Maryland ! 

Blood-red  my  hand,  and  dead  my  heart, 

Native  land,  my  native  land  ! 
Columbia  from  her  grave  will  start, 

Murder'd  land,  my  murder'd  land ! 
Thy  flag  is  like  a  sword  of  fire, 
I  '11  fly,  I  '11  fly  its  vengeful  ire  ; 
Beneath  its  stroke  its  foes  expire, 

Native  land,  my  native  land  ! 

Harpers'   Weekly. 


BOSTON  HYMN.* 

BY  RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 

THE  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  sea-side, 
And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  —  I  am  tired  of  Kings, 
I  suffer  them  no  more ; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 
A  field  of  havoc  and  war, 

*  Read  at  the  Emancipation  Meeting  at  Boston,  January  1, 
1803. 


140  BOSTON  HYMN. 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 
Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king  ; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land 
Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  his  statue, 
When  he  has  wrought  his  best. 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods ; 
Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great : 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  State. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs ; 
Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 
The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires. 


BOSTON  HYMN.  141 

And  here  in  a  pine  State-House 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful  faculty,  — 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  !  if  these  poor  men 

Can  govern  the  land  and  sea, 

And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun,  — 

As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

'T  is  nobleness  to  serve  ; 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again  ; 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth, 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 
His  proper  good  to  flow : 
So  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 
So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  his  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner, 

And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim  ! 

Who  is  the  owner  ?     The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever  was.     Pay  him  ! 

O  North  !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South  !  for  his  shame  ; 


142 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE. 

Nevada  !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up  !  and  the  dusky  race 
That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  My  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be ; 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


TREASON'S   LAST   DEVICE. 

BY   EDMUND    C.    STEDMAN. 

"  Who  deserves  greatness, 
Deserves  your  hate.         .... 
You  common  cry  of  curs,  whose  breath  I  loathe 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens." 

Coriolanus. 

"Hark!  hark!  the  dogs  do  bark." 

Nursery  Rhyme. 

SONS  of  New  England  in  the  fray, 

Do  you  hear  the  clamor  behind  your  back  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  yelping  of  Blanche  and  Tray, 
Sweetheart  and  all  the  mongrel  pack  ? 

Girded  well  with  her  ocean  crags, 
Little  our  mother  heeds  their  noise ; 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE.  143 

Her  eyes  are  fixed  on  crimson  flags : 

But  you,  —  do  you  hear  It,  Yankee  boys  ? 

Do  you  hear  them  say  that  the  patriot  fire 

Burns  on  her  altai-s  too  pure  and  bright, 
To  the  darkened  heavens  leaping  higher, 

Though  drenched  with  the  blood  of  every  fight  ? 
That  in  the  light  of  its  searching  flame 

Treason  and  tyrants  stand  revealed, 
And  the  yielding  craven  is  put  to  shame 

On  capitol  floor  or  fbughten  field  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  hissing  voice  which  saith 

That  she  —  who  bore  through  all  the  land 
The  lyre  of  Freedom,  the  torch  of  Faith, 

And  young  Invention's  mystic  wand  — • 
Should  gather  her  skirts  and  dwell  apart, 

With  not  one  of  her  sisters  to  share  her  fa*  c,  — 
A  Hagar,  wandering  sick  at  heart  ? 

A  Pariah,  bearing  tha  nation's  hate  ? 

Sons,  who  have  peopled  the  gorgeous  West, 

And  planted  the  Pilgrim  vine  anew, 
Where,  by  a  richer  soil  carest, 

It  grows  as  ever  its  parent  grew,  — 
Say,  do  you  hear  —  while  the  very  bells 

Of  your  churches  ring  with  her  ancient  voice. 
And  the  song  of  your  children  sweetly  tells 

How  true  was  the  land  of  your  fathers'  choice  — 

Do  you  hear  the  traitors  Avho  bid  you  speak 

The  word  that  shall  sever  the  sacred  tie  ? 
And  ye  who  dwell  by  the  golden  Peak, 

Has  the  subtle  whisper  glided  by  ? 
Has  it  crossed  the  immemorial  plains 

To  coasts  where  the  gray  Pacific  roars, 
And  the  Pilgrim  blood  in  the  people's  veins 

Is  pure  as  the  wealth  of  their  mountain  ores  ? 


144        LARRY'S  RETURN  FROM  THE    WAR. 

Spirits  of  sons  who  side  by  side 

In  a  hundred  battles  fought  and  fell, 
Whom  now  no  East  and  West  divide, 

In  the  isles  where  the  shades  of  heroes  dwell,  — 
Say,  has  it  reached  your  glorious  rest, 

And  ruffled  the  calm  which  crowns  you  there  ? 
The  shame  that  recreants  have  confest, 

The  plot  that  floats  in  the  troubled  air  ? 

Sons  of  New  England,  here  and  there, 

Wherever  men  are  still  holding  by 
The  honor  our  fathers  left  so  fair,  — 

Say,  do  you  hear  the  cowards'  cry  ? 
Crouching  amongst  her  grand  old  crags, 

Lightly  our  mother  heeds  their  noise, 
With  her  fond  eyes  fixed  on  distant  flags  ; 

But  you,  —  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys  ? 

WASHINGTON,  Jan.  19,  1863. 

New  York  Tribune. 


LARRY'S  RETURN  FROM  THE  WAR.' 


THF  black  clouds  Avere  angrily  chasing  each  other; 

The  cold  winter  winds  howling  carelessly  by 
The  cottage  where  sat  Kitty  Gray  and  her  mother,  — 

Poor  Kitty  looked  sad,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
She  thought  of  her  lover,  with  whom  she  had  parted,  — 

Who  had  gone  to  the  wars,  —  it  was  Larry  O'More. 
Oh,  hark  !  she  heard  footsteps,  and  suddenly  started  ; 

Then  smiled,  as  she  leaped  like  a  faAvn  to  the  door. 

*  Larry  was  one  of  those  who  withdrew  from  the  contest  be 
cause  of  the  Proclamation  of  Freedom  to  the  slaves  in  the  States 
under  rebel  rule,  which  was  issued  January  1,  1863. 


LARRY'S  RETURN  FROM  THE    WAR.     145 

And  lo  !  there  stood  Larry,  as  fresh  and  as  cosy 

As  when  he  left  Kitty's  bewitching  young  charms ; 
Whose   eyes  were   so  bright,  and  whose  cheeks  were  so 
rosy,  — 

"  Arrah  !  Kitty,"  said  Larry,  "  love,  come  to  me  arms." 
"  O  Larry  !  you  're  safe  !  "     "  Yes,  thrue  for  ye,  darlin' ; 

I  've  been  in  the  battles,  whin  the  balance  wor  kilt, 
An'  the  nbils,  like  haythens,  come  fightin'  an'  snarlin'  — 

Arrah!  Kitty,  no  knowin'  the  blood  that  was  spilt." 

"  Come,  Larry,  sit  down."     "  Faith,  I  will,  an'  close  near 
you, 

For  lonesome  I  've  been  for  many  months  past ; 
I  often  have  wished  —  d'  ye  mind  ?  "     "  Yes,  I  hear  you." 

"  That  ivery  big  fight  that  we  had  was  the  last." 
"  And    have  you   been   wounded  ?  "      "  Ah,   no  !    I   wor 
lucky. 

The  boys  fought  like  divils,  an'  died  in  a  hape ; 
An'  since  our  last  inarch,  as  we  wint  through  Kintucky, 

How  many  brave  fellows  have  laid  down  to  slape ! 

"  No  longer  a  sojer,  dear  Kitty,  I  '11  tarry,  — 

Faith,  while  I  wor  one,  to  the  cause  I  wor  thrue,  — 
An'  now  I  've  come  home,  love,  a  swate  girl  to  marry." 

"  Pray,   Larry,   who   is   she  ?  "      "  Arrah  !    Kitty,   't  is 

you  ! 
I  've  got  me  discharge,  an'  through  life's  wintry  weather 

We  '11  make  the  path  aisy  as  aisy  can  be. 
Me  heart  's  in  me  hand."     "  I  '11  take  them  together." 

"  Presint  arms,   then,  darlint ! "     "I   will,  love,"  says 
she. 

"  Ah,  Larry  !  I  'm  glad  —  are  you  tired  of  fightin'  ?  " 
And  sweet  Kitty  smiled  —  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 

"  Oh !  no,  Kitty,  dear  ;  for  I  took  a  delight  in 
Performin'  me  dooty,  wherever  it  lies ; 

May  me  hand  lave  me  body  whin  I  pull  the  thrigger 
10 


146  AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

In  battle  again."     "  Why,  Larry  ?  "     "  Because 
The  Goddess  of  Liberty  's  turned  to  a  nigger, 
An'  ould  Father  Abrani  's  forgotten  the  laws  !  " 

HERMITAGE,  January  8,  1863. 

Louisville  Sunday  Democrat 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

BY    JOHN    GREENLE4F    WIIITTIER. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  .on  the  sea ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song  ; 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Wrhere  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  147 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 

The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 

Dark  faces  broad  Avith  smiles : 
Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate  and  loss 

That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days  ;  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG    OF    THE    NEGRO    BOATMEN. 

O,  PRAISE  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free ; 
An'  massa  tink  de  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den ; 
He  say  de  word :  we  las'  night  slaves, 
To-day  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbles  gone ; 
He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 


148  AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn  shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  ;  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free ; 
De  Norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word ; 
So,  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

AVe  waited  for  de  Lord ; 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 

He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 

We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


LEFT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD.        149 

So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny  ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song  ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still, 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill : 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom ! 


LEFT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

BY   SARAH   T.    BOLTON. 

WHAT,  was  it  a  dream  ?  am  I  all  alone 

In  the  dreary  night  and  the  drizzling  rain  ? 

Hist !  —  ah,  it  was  only  the  river's  moan  ; 

They  have  left  me  behind,  with  the  mangled  slain. 


150  LEFT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Yes,  now  I  remember  it  all  too  well  ! 

We  met,  from  the  battling  ranks  apart ; 
Together  our  weapons  flashed  and  fell, 

And  mine  was  sheathed  in  his  quivering  heart. 

In  the  cypress  gloom,  where  the  deed  was  done, 

It  was  all  too  dark  to  see  his  face ; 
But  I  heard  his  death-groans,  one  by  one, 

And  he  holds  me  still  in  a  cold  embrace. 

He  spoke  but  once,  and  I  could  not  hear 
The  words  he  said,  for  the  cannon's  roar ; 

But  my  heart  grew  cold  with  a  deadly  fear,  — 
O  God  !  I  had  heard  that  voice  before  ! 

Had  heard  it  before  at  our  mother's  knee, 

When  we  lisped  the  words  of  our  evening  prayer  ! 

My  brother  !  would  I  had  died  for  thee,  — 
This  burden  is  more  than  my  soul  can  bear  ! 

I  pressed  my  lips  to  his  death-cold  cheek, 

And  begged  him  to  show  me,  by  word  or  sign, 

That  he  knew  and  forgave  me  :  lie  could  not  speak, 
But  he  nestled  his  poor  cold  face  to  mine. 

The  blood  flowed  fast  from  my  wounded  side, 
And  then  for  awhile  I  forgot  my  pain, 

And  over  the  lakelet  we  seemed  to  glide 
In  our  little  boat,  two  boys  again. 

And  then,  in  my  dream,  we  stood  alone 
On  a  forest  path  where  the  shadows  fell ; 

And  I  heard  again  the  tremulous  tone, 
And  the  tender  words  of  his  last  farewell. 

But  that  parting  was  years,  long  years  ago, 
He  wandered  away  to  a  foreign  land  ; 


IN  LOUISIANA.  151 

And  our  dear  old  mother  will  never  know 
That  he  died  to-night  by  his  brother's  hand. 


The  soldiers  who  buried  the  dead  away, 

Disturbed  not  the  clasp  of  that  last  embrace, 

But  laid  them  to  sleep  till  the  Judgment-day, 
Heart  folded  to  heart,  and  face  to  face. 

INDIAN AOPLIS,  Indiana,  March,  1863. 

Once  a 


IN  LOUISIANA. 

BY    J.    AV.     DE   FOREST,    U.    S.   A. 

WITHOUT  a  hillock  stretched  the  plain  ; 

For  months  we  had  not  seen  a  hill  ; 

The  endless,  flat  savannas  still 
Wearied  our  eyes  with  waving  cane. 

One  tangled  cane-field  lay  before 
The  ambush  of  the  cautious  foe ; 
Behind,  a  black  bayou  Avith  low, 

Reed-hidden,  miry,  treacherous  shore  ; 

A  sullen  swamp  along  the  right, 

Where  alligators  slept  and  crawled, 
And  moss-robed  cypress  giants  sprawled 

Athwart  the  noontide's  blistering  light. 

Quick,  angry  spits  of  musketry 

Proclaimed  our  skirmishers  at  work  ; 
We  saw  their  crouching  figures  lurk 

Through  thickets,  firing  from  the  knee. 


152  IN  LOUISIANA. 

Our  Parrot ts  felt  the  distant  wood 

With  humming,  shrieking,  growling  shell  ; 
When  suddenly  the  mouth  of  hell 

Gaped  fiercely  for  its  human  food. 

A  long  and  low  blue  roll  of  smoke 
Curled  up  a  hundred  yards  ahead, 
And  deadly  storms  of  driving  lead 

From  rifle-pits  and  cane-fields  broke. 

Then  while  the  bullets  whistled  thick, 

And  hidden  batteries  boomed  and  shelled, 
"  Charge  bayonets !  "  the  colonel  yelled  ; 

"  Battalion  forward,  —  double  quick  !  " 

With  even  slopes  of  bayonets 

Advanced  —  a  dazzling,  threatening  crest 
Right  toward  the  rebels'  hidden  nest, 

The  dark-blue,  living  billow  sets. 

The  color-guard  was  at  my  side  ; 

I  heard  the  color-sergeant  groan  ; 

I  heard  the  bullet  crush  the  bone ; 
I  might  have  touched  him  as  he  died. 

The  life-blood  spouted  from  his  mouth 
And  sanctified  the  wicked  land : 
Of  martyred  saviours  what  a  band 

Has  suffered  to  redeem  the  South  ! 

I  had  no  malice  in  rny  mind ; 

I  only  cried,  "  Close  up.      Guide  right !  " 
My  single  purpose  in  the  fight 

WTas  steady  march  with  ranks  aligned. 

I  glanced  along  the  martial  rows, 

And  marked  the  soldiers'  eyeballs  burn ; 


SONG  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  SPRING  BIRDS.     153 

Their  eager  faces,  hot  and  stern,  — 
The  wrathful  triumph  on  their  brows. 

The  traitors  saw  ;  they  reeled,  they  fled : 
Fear-stricken,  gray-clad  multitudes 
Streamed  wildly  toward  the  covering  woods, 

And  left  us  victory  and  their  dead. 

Once  more  the  march,  the  tiresome  plain, 
The  Father  River  fringed  with  dykes, 
Gray  cypresses,  palmetto  spikes, 

Bayous  and  swamps  and  yellowing  cane ; 

With  here  and  there  plantations  rolled 
In  flowers,  bananas,  orange-groves, 
Where  laugh  the  sauntering  negro  droves, 

Reposing  from  the  task  of  old  ; 

And,  rarer,  half-deserted  towns, 

Devoid  of  men,  where  women  scowl, 
Avoiding  us  as  lepers  foul 

With  sidling  gait  and  flouting  gowns. 

THIBODEAUX,  La.,  March,  1863. 

Harpers'  Monthly. 


SONG  OF  NEW-ENGLAND  SPRING  BIRDS. 

WHEN  Robin,  Swallow,  Thrush,  and  Wren, 
From  "  way  down  South  "  had  come  again, 
I  roamed  through  field  and  wood  to  see 
If  birds,  like  men,  could  Rebels  be  ; 
I  wondered  if  their  tiny  throats 
Would  circulate  secession  notes ; 
I  think,  may  be,  my  thoughts  they  knew, 
So  what  they  sang,  I  '11  sing  to  you. 


154    SONG  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  SPRING  BIRDS. 

First  rising  from  a  sedgy  brook, 

The  stump,  bold  Bob-o'  Lincoln  took ; 

"  Well,  now,  I  guess  I  'm  glad,"  said  he, 

"  For  my  free  speech  a  stump  to  see  ; 

They  could  n't  hold  me  in  the  mesh 

Of  that  strange  net  they  call  '  Secesh  ' ; 

To  keep  me  down  they  need  n't  think  on,  — 

Hurrah  !  for  Bob  (and  Abram)  Lincoln  ! " 

The  Robin  Red-breast  sang  his  song  ; 
"  Ah,  me  !  I  've  seen  such  fearful  wrong  ! 
I  thought  at  first  the  storm  would  clear  up, 
But  soon  I  had  no  heart  to  chirrup ! 
The  '  Sunny  South '  is  fine,  I  know, 
When  Northern  hills  are  white  with  snow  ; 
But  oh,  't  is  full  of  grief  and  pain  ! 
Cheer  up  !  chirrup  I  'in  home  again." 

The  Wren  piped  forth  her  tiny  cry  ; 

"  A  little  thing,  I  know,  am  I ;  — 

But  small,  weak  things,  like  you  and  me, 

My  sister  Sparrow,  love  the  free  !  " 

The  Sparrow  heard  the  lowly  call, 

And  said,  "  Who  heeds  the  sparrows'  fall, 

And  keeps  them  always  in  His  sight, 

Shall  hear  ME  sing  '  God  speed  the  Right ! ' " 

Then  Jay,  the  bluebird,  joined  the  throng, 

And  bade  the  white  Dove  fly  along ; 

And  Oriole  with  throat  of  red,  — 

And  then  exultantly,  he  said  : 

"  Come,  loyal  birds,  and  as  we  stand, 

Behold  the  colors  of  our  Land  ! 

Let  every  bird  that 's  brave  and  true, 

Sing,  cheer,  the  Red  and  White  and  Blue ! " 

The  sky  o'erhead  was  clear  and  bright, 
The  North  wind  sang  o'er  plain  and  height ; 


THE    WOOD   OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE.         155 

The  rill  went  singing  on  its  way, 
And  leaves  and  flowers  were  bright  and  gay  ; 
The  rock  and  wood  and  meadow  rang, 
As  loud  and  clear  and  sweet  they  sang, 
And  every  bird,  it  seemed  to  me, 
Sang  "  Praise  the  Lord  !    We  're  free  !  we  're  free  !  " 

Coinmcnicealtli. 


THE  WOOD  OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE. 

THE  ripe  red  berries  of  the  wintergreen 
Lure  me  to  pause  awhile 

In  this  deep,  tangled  wood.     I  stop  and  lean 
Down  where  these  wild  flowers  smile, 
And  rest  me  in  this  shade ;  for  many  a  mile, 

Through  lane  and  dusty  street, 

I  've  walked  with  weary,  weary  feet, 

And  now  I  tarry  'mid  this  woodland  scene, 

'Mong  ferns  and  mosses  sweet. 

Here  all  around  me  blows 

The  pale  primrose. 

I  wonder  if  the  gentle  blossom  knows 

The  feeling  at  my  heart  —  the  solemn  grief, 

So  whelming  and  so  deep 
That  it  disdains  relief, 

And  will  not  let  me  weep. 
I  wonder  that  the  woodbine  thrives  and  grows, 
And  is  indifferent  to  the  nation's  woes. 
For  while  these  mornings  shine,  these  blossoms  bloom, 
Impious  rebellion  wraps  the  land  in  gloom. 

Nature,  thou  art  unkind, 

fjnsympathizing,  blind  ! 

Yon  lichen,  clinging  to  th'  o'erhanging  rock, 


156       THE    WOOD   OF  CHANCELLORSVLLLE. 

Is  happy,  and  each  blade  of  grass 

O'er  which  unconsciously  I  pass 
Smiles  in  my  face,  and  seems  to  mock 

Me  with  its  joy.      Alas  !  I  cannot  find 

One  charm  in  bounteous  Nature,  while  the  wind 
That  blows  upon  my  cheek  bears  on  each  gust 
The  groans  of  my  poor  country,  bleeding  in  the  dust. 

The  air  is  musical  with  notes 

That  gush  from  winged  warblers'  throats, 

And  in  the  leafy  trees 

I  hear  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees. 

Prone  from  the  blinding  sky 
Dance  rainbow-tinted  sunbeams,  thick  with  motes  ; 

Daisies  are  shining,  and  the  butterfly 
Wavers  from  flower  to  flower  ;  —  yet  in  this  wood 
The  ruthless  foernan  stood, 
And  every  turf  is  drenched  with  human  blood  ! 

O  heartless  flowers! 

O  trees,  clad  in  your  robes  of  glistering  sheen, 
Put  off  this  canopy  of  gorgeous  green ! 

These  are  the  hours 

For  mourning,  not  for  gladness.      While  this  smart 

Of  treason  dire  gashes  the  nation's  heart, 

Let  birds  refuse  to  sing, 

And  flowers  to  bloom  upon  the  lap  of  spring. 

Let  Nature's  face  itself  with  tears  o'erflow, 

In  deepest  anguish  for  a  people's  woe. 

While  rank  Rebellion  stands 

With  blood  of  martyrs  on  his  impious  hands  ; 

While  slavery  and  chains 

And  cruelty  and  direst  hate 

Uplift  their  heads  within  th'  afflicted  State, 
And  freeze  the  blood  in  every  patriot's  veins  — 
Let  these  old  woodlands  fair 


SONG   OF  THE  COPPERHEAD.  157 

Grow  black  with  gloom,  and  from  its  thunder-lair 

Let  lightning  leap,  and  scorch  th'  accursed  air ; 

Until  the  suffering  earth, 

Of  treason  sick,  shall  spew  the  monster  forth,  — 

And  each  regenerate  sod 

Be  consecrate  anew,  to  Freedom  and  to  God  ! 

Delia  H.  German. 


SONG  OF  THE  COPPERHEAD. 

THERE  was  glorious  news,  for  our  arms  were  victorious  — 

'T  was    sometime    ago  —  and    't  was    somewhere    out 

West ; 
The  big  guns  were  booming,  —  the  boys  getting  glorious ; 

But  one  man  was  gloomy,  and  glad  all  the  rest ! 
Intending  emotions  delightful  to  damp, 

He  hummed  and  he  hawed,  and  he  sneered  and  he 

sighed,  — 
A  snake  in  the  grass,  and  a  spy  in  the  camp, 

While  the  honest  were  laughing,  the  Copperhead  cried  ! 

There  was  news  of  a  battle,  and  sad  souls  were  aching 

The  fate  of  their  brave  and  beloved  ones  to  learn ; 
Pale  wives  stood  all  tearless,  their  tender  hearts  breaking 

For  the  gallant  good-man  who  would  never  return ! 
We  had  lost  all  but  honor,  —  so  ran  the  sad  story,  — 

Oh !  bitter  the  cup  that  the  Patriot  quaffed  ! 
He  had  tears  for  our  flag,  —  he  had  sighs  for  our  glory,  — 

He  had   groans  for  our  dead,  —  but  the   Copperhead 
laughed ! 

The  traitor  !  the  sneak  !  say,  what  fate  shall  await  him, 
Who  forgets  his  fair  land,  and  who  spits  on  her  fame  ? 

Let  no  woman  love  him  !     Let  honest  men  hate  him ! 
Let  his  children  refuse  to  be  known  by  his  name  ! 


158  AT   GETTYSBURG. 

In  the  hour  of  our  sorrow  all  recreant  we  found  him,  — 
In  the  hour  of  his  woe  may  he  sigh  for  a  friend ! 

Let  his  conscience  upbraid,  let  his  memory  hound  him, 
And  no  man  take  note  of  the  Copperhead's  end  ! 

Vanity  Fair. 


AT  GETTYSBURG.* 

LIKE  a  furnace  of  fire  blazed  the  midsummer  sun 

When  to  saddle  we  leaped  at  the  order, 
Spurred  on  by  the  boom  of  the  deep-throated  gun, 

That  told  of  the  foe  on  our  border. 
A  mist  in  our  rear  lay  Antietam's  dark  plain, 

And  thoughts  of  its  carnage  came  o'er  us ; 
But  smiling  before  us  surged  fields  of  ripe  grain, 

And  we  swore  none  should  reap  it  before  us. 

That  night,  with  the  ensign  who  rode  by  my  side, 

On  the  camp's  dreary  edge  I  stood  picket ; 
Our  ears  intent,  lest  every  wind-rustle  should  hide 

A  spy's  stealthy  tread  in  the  thicket ; 
And,  there,  while  we  watched  the  first  arrows  of  dawn 

Through  the  veil  of  the  rising  mist's  quiver, 
He  told  how  the  foeman  had  closed  in  upon 

His  home  by  the  Tennessee  River. 

He  spoke  of  a  sire  in  his  weakness  cut  down, 

With  last  breath  the  traitor  flag  scorning,  — 
(And  his  brow  at  the  mem'ry  grew  dark  with  a  frown 

That  paled  the  red  light  of  the  morning.) 
For  days  he  had  followed  the  cowardly  band ; 

And  when  one  lagged  to  forage  or  trifle, 
Had  seared  in  his  forehead  the  deep  Minie  brand, 

And  scored  a  fresh  notch  on  his  rifle. 

*  The  Battle  of  Gettysburg  was  fought  July  1st,  2d,  and   3d, 
18G3. 


AT  GETTYSBURG.  159 

"  But  one  of  the  rangers  had  cheated  his  fate,  — 

For  him  he  would  search  the  world  over." 
Such  cool-plotting  passion,  such  keenness  of  hate, 

Ne'er  saw  I  in  woman-scorned  lover. 
O,  who  would  have  thought  that  beneath  those  dark  curls 

Lurked  vengeance  as  sure  as  death-rattle  ! 
Or  fancied  those  dreamy  eyes  —  soft  as  a  girl's  — 

Could  light  with  the  fury  of  battle  ? 

To  horse !  pealed  the  bugle,  while  grape-shot  and  shell 

Overhead  through  the  forest  were  crashing. 
A  cheer  for  the  flag  !  and  the  summer  light  fell 

On  the  blades  from  a  thousand  sheaths  flashing. 
As  mad  ocean  waves  to  the  storm-revel  flock, 

So  on  we  dashed,  heedless  of  dangers ; 
A  moment  our  long  line  surged  back  at  the  shock 

Then  swept  through  the  ranks  of  the  Rangers. 

I  looked  for  our  ensign  :   ahead  of  his  troop, 

Pressing  on  through  the  conflict  infernal, 
His  torn  flag  furled  round  him  in  festoon  and  loop, 

He  spurred  to  the  side  of  his  Colonel. 
And  his  clear  voice  rang  out,  as  I  saw  his  bright  sword 

Through  shako  and  gaudy  plume  shiver, 
With  "  this  for  the  last  of  the  murderous  horde  ! " 

And  "  this  for  the  home  by  the  river  !  " 

At  evening,  returned  from  pursuit  of  the  foe, 

By  a  shell-shattered  caisson  we  found  him  ; 
And  we  buried  him  there  in  the  sunset  glow, 

With  the  dear  old  flag  knotted  around  him. 
Yet  how  could  we  mourn,  when  every  proud  strain 

Told  of  foemen  hurled  back  in  disorder ; 
When  we  knew  that  the  North  reaped  her  rich  harvest 
gram 

Unharmed  by  a  foe  on  her  border  ! 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


t6o   HOW  ARE  YOU,  GENERAL  LEE? 


HOW  ARE  YOU,  GENERAL  LEE? 

OF    General    Lee,  the  Rebel  chief,  you    all   perhaps  do 

know 
How  he  came  North,  a  short  time  since,  to  spend  a  month 

or  so  ? 
But  soon  he  found  the  climate  warm,  although  a  Southern 

man, 
And   quickly  hurried  up  his   cakes,*  and   toddled  home 

again. 
Chorus  —  How  are  you,  General  Lee  ?  it  is ;  why  don't 

you  longer  stay  ? 

How  are  your  friends  in  Maryland  and  Penn- 
sylvani-a  ? 

Jeff.  Davis  met  him  coining  back :   "  Why,  General  Lee," 

he  said, 
"  What  makes  you  look  and  stagger  so  ?  there 's  whiskey 

in  your  head." 
"Not  much,  I  think,"  says  General  Lee;  "No  whiskey's 

there,  indeed  ; 
What  makes  me  feel  so  giddy  is,  I  've  taken  too  much 

Mcade ! " 
Chorus  —  How  are  you,  General  ?  &c. 

"  But  you  seem  ill  yourself,  dear  Jeff.     You  look  quite 

sad  enough  ; 
I  think,  while  I  've   been   gone,   Old  Abe  has  used  you 

rather  rough." 
"  Well,  yes,  he  has,  and  that 's  a  fact ;  it  makes  me  feel 

downcast, 

*  As  long  as  the  importance  of  hurrying  buckwheat  pancakes 
from  the  griddle  to  the  table  is  impressed  upon  the  American  mind, 
this  vile  slang  will  need  no  explanation.  But  the  fame  of  the 
rebel  march  into  Pennsylvania  and  of  the  victory  of  Gettysburg 
will  probably  outlive  even  the  taste  for  those  alluring  compounds. 


HYMN.  l6l 

For  they  've  bothered  us  at  Vicksburg,  so  't  is  Granted 

them  at  last." 
Chorus  —  Then,  how  are  you,  Jeff.  Davis  ?     What  is  it 

makes  you  sigh  ? 

How    are  your   friends   at   Vicksburg   and    in 
Mississippi-!  ? 

"  Yes,  Vicksburg  they  have  got  quite  sure,  and  Richmond 

soon  they  '11  take  ; 
At  Port   Hudson,  too,  they  have  some  Banks  I  fear  we 

cannot  break : 
While  Rosecrans,  in  Tennessee,  swears  he  '11   our   army 

flog, 
And  prove  if  Bragg  's  a  terrier  good,  Holdfast 's  a  better 

dog." 
Chorus  —  How  are  you,  Jeff.   Davis  ?      Would   you   not 

like  to  be 
A  long  way  out  of  Richmond  and  the   Con- 

fede — ra — cy  ? 
For,  with  u  Porter  "  on  the  river,  and  "  Meade  " 

upon  the  land, 

I  guess  you  '11  find  that  these  mixed  drinks  are 
more  than  you  can  stand. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE   FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1863. 
BY   GEORGE   II.    BOICER. 

LORD,  the  people  of  the  land 
In  Thy  presence  humbly  stand  ; 
On  this  day,  when  Thou  didst  free 
Men  of  old  from  tyranny, 
We,  their  children,  bow  to  Thee. 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 
11 


1 62  HYMN. 

All  our  homes  are  red  with  blood ; 
Long  our  grief  we  have  withstood ; 
Every  lintel,  each  door-post 
Drips,  at  tidings  from  the  host, 
With  the  blood  of  some  one  lost. 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

Comfort,  Lord,  the  grieving  one 
Who  bewails  a  stricken  son  ! 
Comfort,  Lord,  the  weeping  wife, 
In  her  long,  long  widowed  life, 
Brooding  o'er  the  fatal  strife  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

On  our  Nation's  day  of  birth, 
Bless  Thy  own  long-favored  earth! 
Urge  the  soldier  with  Thy  will ! 
Aid  their  leaders  with  Thy  skill ! 
Let  them  hear  Thy  trumpet  thrill ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

Lord,  we  only  fight  for  peace,  — 
Fight  that  freedom  may  increase. 
Give  us  back  the  peace  of  old, 
When  the  land  with  plenty  rolled, 
And  our  banner  awed  the  bold  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust  ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

Lest  we  pray  in  thoughtless  guilt 
Shape  the  future  as  Thou  wilt  ! 
Purge  our  realm  from  hoary  crime 
With  Thy  battles,  dread,  sublime, 
In  Thy  well-appointed  time  ! 


LEFT  ON  THE   BATTLE-FIELD.  163 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 
We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

With  one  heart  the  Nation's  cries 
From  our  choral  lips  arise  ; 
Thou  didst  point  a  noble  way 
For  our  Fathers  through  the  fray : 
Lead  their  children  thus  to-day  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 

In  His  name  who  bravely  bore 

Cross  and  crown  begemmed  with  gore, 

By  His  last  immortal  groan 

Ere  He  mounted  to  His  throne,  — 

Make  our  sacred  cause  Thine  own  ! 

Help  us,  Lord,  our  only  trust ! 

We  are  helpless,  we  are  dust ! 


LEFT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

BY   HOWARD   GLYNDON. 

OH,  my  darling  !  my  darling  !  never  to  feel 

Your  hand  going  over  my  hair  ! 
Never  to  lie  in  your  arms  again,  — 

Never  to  know  where  you  are  ! 
Oh,  the  weary  miles  that  stretch  between 

My  feet  and  the  battle-ground, 
Where  all  that  is  left  of  my  dearest  love 

Lies  under  some  yellow  mound  ! 

It  is  but  little  I  might  have  done 

To  lighten  your  parting  pain  ; 
But  't  is  bitter  to  think  that  you  died  alone, 

Out  in  the  dark  and  the  rain  ! 


164  LAY  OF  THE  MODERN "KONSERVAT1VS." 

Oh,  my  hero  love  !  —  to  have  kissed  the  pain 
And  the  mist  from  your  fading  eyes  ! 

To  have  saved  one  only  passionate  look 
To  sweeten  these  memories  ! 


And  thinking  of  all,  I  am  strangely  stunned, 

And  cannot  believe  you  dead. 
You  loved  me,  dear !     And  I  loved  you,  dear ! 

And  your  letter  lies  there  unread  ! 
You  are  not  dead  !     You  are  not  dead  ! 

God  never  could  will  it  so  — 
To  craze  my  brain  and  break  my  heart  — 

And  shatter  my  life  —  I  know  ! 

Dead !  dead  !  and  never  a  word, 

Never  a  look  for  me  ! 
Dead  !  dead  !  and  our  marriage-day 

Never  on  earth  to  be ! 
I  am  left  alone,  and  the  world  is  changed, 

So  dress  me  in  bridal  white, 
And  lay  mo  away  in  some  quiet  place 

Out  of  the  hateful  light. 

Harpers'  Weekly,  Aug  23,  1863. 


LAY  OF  TEIE  MODERN  "  KONSERVATIVS.' 

BY    CHARITY   GRIMES. 

I  AM  a  gay  "  Konservativ," 

I  stand  by  the  old  Konstitushun,  I  du ; 
I  go  for  the  Union  ez  it  was, 

With  the  old  Dimmycrat  ticket,  rite  thru. 
These  Black  Republikans  don't  suit  me, 
Fur  I  'm  a  Konservativ  man,  yu  see ! 


LAY  OF  THE  MODERN  "  KONSEB VA TI VS."   165 

I  am  a  Dimmycrat,  dyed  in  the  wool ; 

I  go  fur  free  trade,  and  that  sort  ov  thing ; 
I  think  it 's  rite  tu  let  slavery  rule  — 

Sooner  'n  hev  Lincoln,  I  'd  vote  fur  a  king, 
And  hev  the  Saouth  fur  an  aristockracy, 
To  rule  the  hull  North,  (except  the  Dimmockracy.) 

Shuttin'  up  folks  fur  speekin'  their  mind, 
In  my  opinion  's  a  piece  ov  knavery,  — 

I  go  fur  free  speech  ov  every  kind, 

Except  when  it  interferes  with  slavery  ! 

(Sich  kind  ov  free  speech  all  Dimmykrats  fight,  — 

Ef  Brooks  hed  killed  Suirmer,  he  'd  done  jest  right.) 

I  go  fur  aour  konstitush'nal  rights, 

With  the  rite  ov  habeas  corpus  invi'late ; 

I  '11  show  'em  haow  a  Dimmykrat  fights, 
Ef  Abram  Lincoln  attempts  tu  spile  it  ! 

I  've  a  right  to  tawk  treason,  ez  I  understand,  — 

Tawk  's  tawk  ;  it 's  money  that  buys  the  land ! 

I  go  fur  the  vigorous  conduct  ov  war ;  — 
Of  course  with  a  decent  regard  tu  figgers, 

So  ez  not  tu  inkreese  aour  national  debt, 
And  abuv  all  not  to  free  the  niggers. 

I  'd  ruthcr  the  North  hed  not  pulled  a  trigger, 

Than  see  a  traitor  shot  down  by  a  nigger. 

Yes,  I  am  a  real  Konservativ ; 

I  stand  by  the  Konstitushun,  I  du  ! 
Ef  enny  wun  sez  I  'm  frends  with  the  Saouth, 

I'll  sware  by  hokey  it  is  n't  true  ! 
I  an't  a  rebel  ;  but  he — m  !  —  speak  low  — 
I  kinder  beleeve  in  Vallandigham,  though  ! 


l66  SAYS  PRIVATE  MAGU1RE. 

SAYS  PRIVATE  MAGUIRE. 

BY   T.    B.    ALDKICH. 

[I  must  beg  the.  pardon  of  Private  Maguire,  of  the New 

York  Regiment,  for  thus  publicly  putting  his  sentiments  into  verse. 
The  following  lyric  will  assure  him  that  I  have  not  forgotten  how 
generously  he  shared  his  scanty  blanket  with  me,  one  terrible  night 
in  the  Virginia  woods,  when  a  blanket  was  worth  fifty  dollars  an 
inch.] 

"  OCH  !  't  is  naie  to  be  captain  or  colonel, 

Divil  a  bit  would  I  want  to  be  higher  ; 
But  to  rust  as  a  private,  I  think  's  an  infernal 

Predicament  surely,"  says  Private  Maguire. 

"  They  can  go  sparkin'  and  play  in'  at  billiards, 

With  greenbacks  to  spend  for  their  slightest  desire, 

Loafm'  and  atin',  and  dthrinkin'  at  Willard's, 

While  we  're  on  the  pickets,"  says  Private  Maguire. 

"  Livin'  in  clover,  they  think  it 's  a  thrifle 

To  stand  out  all  night  in  the  rain  and  the  mire, 

And  a  Rebel  hard  by  with  a  villainous  rifle 
Jist  ready  to  pop  ye,"  says  Private  Maguire. 

"  Faith,  now,  it  's  not  that  I  'm  afther  complainin' ; 

I  'in  spilin'  to  meet  ye,  JefF.  Davis,  Esquire  ! 
Ye  blag-gard  !  —  it 's  only  I  'm  weary  of  thrainin', 

And  thrainin',  and  thrainin',"  says  Private  Maguire. 

"  O  Lord,  for  a  row  !  but,  Maguire,  be  aisy, 

Keep  yourself  sweet  for  the  inemy's  fire, 
McClellan  's  the  saplin'  that  shortly  will  plaze  ye, 

Be  the  holy  St.  Pathrick !  "  says  Private  Maguire. 

"  And,  lad,  if  ye  're  hit,  (O,  bedad,  that  eternal 
Jimmy  O'Dowd  would  make  up  to  Maria ! ) 

Whether  ye  're  sargeant,  or  captain,  or  colonel, 

Ye  '11  die  with  the  best,  then  !•"  says  Private  Man-uire. 


SPRING  AT  THE   CAPITAL.  167 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL. 

THE  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 
Its  tasselled  plumes  of  silver  gray  ; 

The  chestnut  points  its  green  brown  buds,  impatient  for 
the  laggard  May. 

The  honeysuckles  lace  the  wall ; 
The  hyacinths  grow  fair  and  tall ; 

And  mellow  sun  and  pleasant  wind  and  odorous  bees  are 
over  all. 

Down-looking  in  this  snow-white  bud, 
How  distant  seems  the  war's  red  flood  ! 
How    far   remote  the   streaming   wounds,   the    sickening 
scent  of  human  blood  ! 

Nor  Nature  does  not  recognize 
This  strife  that  rends  the  earth  and  skies  ; 
No  war-dreams  vex  the  winter  sleep  of  clover-heads  and 
daisy-eyes. 

She  holds  her  even  way  the  same, 
Though  navies  sink  or  cities  flame ; 

A  snow-drow  is  a  snow-drop  still,  despite  the  nation's  joy 
or  shame. 

When  blood  her  grassy  altar  wets, 
She  sends  the  pitying  violets 

To  heal  the  outrage  with  their  bloom,  and  cover  it  with 
soft  regrets. 

O,  crocuses  with  rain-wet  eyes, 
O,  tender-lipped  anemones, 

What  do  you  know  of  agony,  and  death  and  blood-won 
victories  ? 


168  SPRING  AT   THE    CAPITAL. 

No  shudder  breaks  your  sunshine  trance, 
Though  near  you  rolls,  with  slow  advance, 
Clouding  your  shining  leaves  with  dust,  the  anguish-laden 
ambulance. 

Yonder  a  white  encampment  hums; 
The  clash  of  martial  music  comes  ; 

And  now  your  startled  stems  are  all  a-tremble  with  the 
jar  of  drums. 

Whether  it  lessen  or  increase, 
Or  whether  trumpets  shout  or  cease, 

Still  deep  within  your  tranquil  hearts  the  happy  bees  are 
humming  "  Peace  ! " 

O  flowers  !  the  soul  that  faints  or  grieves, 
New  comfort  from  your  lips  receives ; 

Sweet  confidence  and  patient  faith  are  hidden  in  your 
healing  leaves. 

Help  us  to  trust,  still  on  and  on, 
That  this  dark  night  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  that  these  battle-stains  are  but  the  blood-red  trouble 
of  the  dawn  — 

Dawn  of  a  broader,  whiter  day 
Than  ever  blessed  us  with  its  ray,  — 

A  dawn  beneath  whose  purer  light  all  guilt  and  wrong 
shall  fade  away. 

Then  shall  our  nation  break  its  bands, 
And,  silencing  the  envious  lands, 

Stand  in  the  searching  light  unshamed,  with  spotless  robe, 
and  clean,  white  hands. 


A    WOMAN'S   WAITING.  169 


A  WOMAN'S  WAITING. 

UNDER  the  apple-tree  blossoms,  in  May, 

We  sat  and  watched  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

Behind  us  the  road  stretched  back  to  the  east, 
On,  through  the  meadows,  to  Danbuiy  town. 

Silent  we  sat,  for  our  hearts  were  full, 

Silently  watched  the  reddening  sky, 
And  saw  the  clouds  across  the  west 

Like  the  phantoms  of  ships  sail  silently. 

Robert  had  come  with  a  story  to  tell, 
I  knew  it  before  he  had  said  a  word,  — 

It  looked  from  his  eye,  and  it  shadowed  his  face,  — 
He  was  going  to  march  with  the  Twenty-third. 

We  had  been  neighbors  from  childhood  up,  — 
Gone  to  school  by  the  self-same  way, 

Climbed  the  same  steep  woodland  paths, 
Knelt  in  the  same  old  church  to  pray. 

We  had  wandered  together,  boy  and  girl, 

Where  wild  flowers  grew  and  wild  grapes  hung ; 

Tasted  the  sweetness  of  summer  days 
When  hearts  are  true,  and  life  is  young. 

But  never  a  love-word  had  crossed  his  lips, 

Never  a  hint  of  pledge  or  vow, 
Until,  as  the  sun  went  down  that  night, 

His  tremulous  kisses  touched  my  brow. 

"  Jenny,"  he  said,  "  I  Ve  a  work  to  do 

For  God  and  my  country  and  the  right,  — 

True  hearts,  strong  arms,  are  needed  now, 
I  dare  not  stay  away  from  the  fight. 


1 70  A    WOMAN'S    WAITING. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  pledge  to  cheer  me  on,  — 
A  hope  to  look  forward  to  by-and-by  ? 

"Will  you  wait  for  me,  Jenny,  till  I  come  back  ?  " 
"  I  will  wait,"  I  answered,  "  until  I  die." 

The  May  moon  rose  as  we  walked  that  night 
Back  through  the  meadows  to  Danbury  town, 

And  one  star  rose  and  shone  by  her  side,  — 
Calmly  and  sweetly  they  both  looked  down. 

The  scent  of  blossoms  was  in  the  air, 

The  sky  was  blue  and  the  eve  was  bright, 

And  Robert  said,  as  he  walked  by  my  side, 
"  Old  Danbury  town  is  fair  to-night. 

"  I  shall  think  of  it,  Jenny,  when  far  away, 
Placid  and  still  'neath  the  moon  as  now, — 

I  shall  see  it,  darling,  in  many  a  dream, 

And  you  with  the  moonlight  on  your  brow." 

No  matter  what  else  were  his  parting  words,  — 
They  are  mine  to  treasure  until  I  die, 

With  the  clinging  kisses  and  lingering  looks, 
The  tender  pain  of  that  fond  good-bye. 

I  did  not  weep,  —  I  tried  to  be  brave,  — 
I  watched  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight,  — 

Then  suddenly  all  the  world  grew  dark, 
And  I  was  blind  in  the  bright  May  night. 

Blind  and  helpless  I  slid  to  the  ground, 
And  lay  with  the  night-dews  on  my  hair, 

Till  the  moon  was  down  and  the  dawn  was  up, 
And  the  fresh  May  morn  rose  clear  and  fair. 

He  was  taken  and  I  was  left,  — 

Left  to  wait  and  to  wratch  and  pray,  — 


BARBARA  FRITCH1E.  171 

Till  there  came  a  message  over  the  wires, 
Chilling  the  air  of  the  August  day. 

"  Killed  in  a  skirmish  eight  or  ten  :  " 

"  Wounded  and  helpless  ;  "  as  many  more,  — 

All  of  them  our  Connecticut  men, 

From  the  little  town  of  Danbury,  four. 

But  I  only  saw  a  single  name, 

Of  one  who  was  all  the  world  to  me  ; 
I  promised  to  Avait  for  him  till  I  died,  — 

O  God,  O  Heaven,  when  will  it  be  ! 

Harpers'  Magazine. 


BY   JOHN    GREEXLEAF   WIIITTIER. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

*  The  incident  upon  which  this  ballad  is  founded  took  place 
literally  as  it  is  told  by  the  poet  upon  the  occupation  of  Frederick 
in  Maryland  on  the  second  march  northward  of  the  insurgent 
forces.  The  heroine,  as  I  am  informed  by  Mr.  Whittier,  was 
ninety-six  years  old  at  the  time  of  the  occurrence.  The  title  of 
the  ballad  on  this  page  is  a  fac-simile  of  her  autograph  signature 
to  a  receipt  which  is  in  my  possession. 


172  BARBARA  FR1TCHIE. 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall,  — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  Barbara  Fritchie  then, 

Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff', 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 


BARBARA   FRIT C HIE.  173 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through.  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  inarching  feet  : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Fritchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall  for  her  sake  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Fritchie's  grave 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law ; 


174      A  THANKSGIVING   RAILROAD  BALLAD. 

And  ever  the  stars  above,  look  down 

On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


A    THANKSGIVING   RAILROAD    BALLAD    FOR 

1863. 

BY   E.   PLURIBUS   UNUM,  ESQ. 

IT  was  a  sturdy  engineer, 

The  Union  train  had  he, 
But  slippery  tracks  and  heavy  grades, 

In  eighteen  sixty-three. 

He  wiped  the  sweat  from  off  his  brow  : 

"  These  drivin'  wheels  will  do, 
A  better  ingine  never  ran, 

She  's  bound  to  put  us  through. 

"  Ho  !  Fireman,  Fireman  Chase,  I  mean, 

Down  in  the  tender  there  ! 
We  've  used  a  powerful  sight  of  wood, 

How  much  have  we  to  spare  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! "  out  then  spoke  that  fireman  bold, 

"  We  've  wood  and  water  still ; 
Old  Legal  Tender  holds  enough 

To  make  what  steam  you  will." 

"  Ho  !   Seward,  ho  !  —  conductor  yet, 

In  spite  of  all  the  row  — 
That  Frenchman  and  that  Englishman, 

How  fare  these  worthies  now  ?  " 

"  Quiet  enough,  these  blustering  coves, 
That  carried  it  so  high  ; 


A  THANKSGIVING  RAILROAD  BALLAD      175 

A  great  big  Russian  up  and  blazed 
The  Frenchman  in  the  eye. 

"  His  friend,  John  Bull,  did  not  '  pitch  in,' 

He  drew  it  very  mild, 
And  sat  him  in  the  corner  down, 

Submissive  as  a  child." 

"  Two  stations  back,  conductor  say, 

What  made  that  heavy  strain  ? 
It  felt  to  me  as  though  you  had 

Hitched  on  an  extra  train." 

"  Confound  that  rascal  Copperhead, 

And  all  his  brood  of  snakes  ! 
Just  at  the  heaviest  of  the  grade 

They  put  on  all  the  brakes  !  " 

The  old  wheel-tapper  goes  his  round, 

While  waits  the  engineer, 
Tink,  tink,  tink,  tink  !  the  tested  wheel, 

Sound  music  in  his  ear. 

"  I  thought  as  how  some  wheels  were  cracked, 

But  nary  one  I  find, 
All  right,  save  that  old  Jersey  one, 

And  that  we  need  n't  mind. 

"  Ha !  here  's  a  telegram  from  Grant, 

The  news,  he  says,  is  prime, 
All  clear  along  the  track  once  more, 

We  '11  yet  be  in  on  time." 

The  bell  now  rings,  the  whistle  blows, 

The  signal  given,  "  All  right ;  " 
On  thunders  now  the  Union  train, 

On  streams  its  flag  of  light, 


176  THE  DEAD  DRUMMER-BOY. 

Which,  like  the  beacon  on  the  main, 
Flings  hope  athwart  the  night. 
Halloo ! 

The  grand  old  iron  train 

Has  swept  clean  out  of  sight. 


THE  DEAD  DRUMMER-BOY. 

'MiDST  tangled  roots  that  lined  the  wild  ravine, 

Where  the  fierce  fight  raged  hottest  through  the  day, 
And  where  the  dead  in  scattered  heaps  were  seen, 
Amid  the  darkling  forests'  shade  and  sheen, 
Speechless  in  death  he  lay. 

The  setting  sun,  which  glanced  athwart  the  place 

In  slanting  lines,  like  amber-tinted  rain, 
Fell  sidewise  on  the  drummer's  upturned  face, 
Where  Death  had  left  his  gory  finger's  trace 
In  one  bright  crimson  stain. 

The  silken  fringes  of  his  once  bright  eye 

Lay  like  a  shadow  on  his  cheek  so  fair ; 
His  lips  were  parted  by  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
That  with  his  soul  had  mounted  to  the  sky 
On  some  wild  martial  air. 

No  more  his  hand  the  fierce  tattoo  shall  beat, 

The  shrill  reveille,  or  the  long-roll's  call, 
Or  sound  the  charge,  when  in  the  smoke  and  hcafc 
Of  fiery  onset  foe  with  foe  shall  meet, 
And  gallant  men  shall  fall. 

Yet  maybe  in  some  happy  home,  that  one  — 
A  mother  —  reading  from  the  list  of  dead, 
Shall  chance  to  view  the  name  of  her  dear  son, 


THE  SENTINEL   ON  MORRIS  ISLAND.       177 

And  move  her  lips  to  say,  "  God's  will  be  done  ! " 
And  bow  in  grief  her  head. 

But  more  than  this  what  tongue  shall  tell  his  story  ? 

Perhaps  his  boyish  longings  were  for  fame  ? 
He  lived,  he  died;  and  so,  memento  mori  — 
Enough  if  on  the  page  of  War  and  Glory 
Some  hand  has  writ  his  name. 

Harpers'1  Weekly. 


THE   SENTINEL  ON  MORRIS  ISLAND. 

WITH  measured  tread  along  his  lonely  beat, 

At  twilight,  dawn,  or  in  the  darksome  night, 
Or  when  at  noon  the  sun,  with  growing  heat, 
Lets  fall  his  dazzling  light,  — 

The  watchful  sentinel,  up  and  down  the  shore, 

Paces  with  weary  feet  the  yielding  sand, 
While  the  salt  waves,  with  deep  and  sullen  roar, 
Shout  hoarsely  to  the  land. 

At  dawn  he  sees  the  glitt'ring  morning  star 

Set  like  a  jewel  in  the  roseate  sky ; 
And  glimmering  to  the  sight,  within  the  bar, 
The  fleet  at  anchor  lie. 

He  sees  the  city,  distant,  dull,  and  gray, 

Its  quaint  old  roofs,  and  slender,  tapering  spires, 
When  darkly  painted  at  the  close  of  day 
Against  the  sunset's  fires. 

At  night  he  sees  the  heavens  all  spangled  o'er 

With  shining  gems  that  like  bright  watch-fires  burn 
And  though  far  off,  and  on  a  hostile  shore, 
His  thoughts  to  home  will  turn. 
12 


178        THE  SENTINEL  ON  MORRIS  ISLAND. 

Or  maybe,  in  the  pitiless,  cold  storm, 

While  moans  the  wind  like  some  poor  soul  in  paMW- 
With  drooping  head  and  weary,  bended  form, 
He  braves  the  pelting  rain, 

And  in  his  mind  there  dwells  a  picture  fair : 

A  cottage-room  with  walls  like  purest  sno^Vy^ 
And  round  the  hearthstone  friendly  faces  there 
Shine  in  the  fire's  warm  glow. 

An  aged  man,  with  locks  all  silver  white  ; 

An  aged  dame,  his  helpmate  she  through  life; 
And  still  a  third,  with  mild  eyes  beaming  bright,  — 
Perhaps  the  soldier's  wife  ; 

And  rosy  children  climb  upon  her  knee  — 

With  smiling  face  looks  on  the  aged  dame  — 
They,  laughing,  clap  their  little  hands  in  glee, 
And  sweetly  lisp  his  name. 

Now  from  the  frowning  batteries'  bristling  side 

Peals  forth  the  murderous  cannon's  awful  roar, 
Waking  the  answering  echoes,  far  and  wide, 
From  shore  to  farther  1  shore. 

So  fades  the  picture :  each  loved  form  is  fled,  — 

That  waking  vision,  beautiful,  yet  brief;  — 
And  up  the  beach  with  solid,  steady  tread 
Comes  on  the  brave  "  Relief." 

Then  on  his  bed,  while  falls  the  chilly  rain 

And  other  sentinels  their  vigils  keep, 
Sweet  thoughts  of  home  go  flitting  through  his  brain, 
And  fill  his  dreamful  sleep. 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


SHODDY."  179 


"  SHODDY." 

OLD  Shoddy  sits  in  his  easy-chair, 

And  cracks  his  jokes  and  drinks  his  ale, 
Dumb  to  the  shivering  soldier's  prayer, 

Deaf  to  the  widows'  and  orphans'  wail. 
His  coat  is  as  warm  as  the  fleece  unshorn  ; 

Of  the  "  golden  fleece  "  he  is  dreaming  still ; 
And  the  music  that  lulls  him  night  and  morn 

Is  the  hum-lmm-hum  of  the  shoddy-mill. 

Clashing  cylinders,  whizzing  wheels, 

Rend  and  ravel  and  tear  and  pick ; 
What  can  resist  these  hooks  of  steel, 

Sharp  as  the  claws  of  the  ancient  Nick  ? 
Cast-off  mantle  of  millionaire, 

Pestilent  vagrant's  vesture  chill, 
Rags  of  miser  or  beggar  bare. 

All  are  "  grist "  for  the  shoddy-mill. 

Worthless  waste  and  worn-out  wool, 

Flung  together,  a  spacious  sham  ! 
With  just  enough  of  the  "  fleece  "  to  pull 

Over  the  eyes  of  poor  Uncle  Sam. 
Cunningly  twisted  through  web  and  woof, 

Not  "  shirt  of  Nessus  "  such  power  to  kill  ; 
Look,  how  the  prints  of  his  hideous  hoof 

Track  the  fiend  of  the  shoddy-mill ! 

A  soldier  lies  on  the  frozen  ground, 

While  crack  his  joints  with  aches  and  ails ; 
A  '  shoddy  '  blanket  wraps  him  round, 

His  '  shoddy  '  garments  the  wind  assails. 
His  coat  is  '  shoddy,'  well  '  stuffed '  with  '  flocks  ; 

He  dreams  of  the  flocks  on  his  native  hill ; 
His  feverish  sense  the  demon  mocks,  — 

The  demon  that  drives  the  shoddy-mill. 


180  LINT. 

Ay  I  pierce  his  tissues  with  shooting  pains, 

Tear  the  muscles,  and  rend  the  bone, 
Fire  with  frenzy  the  heart  and  brain,  — 

Old  Rough  Shoddy,  your  work  is  done : 
Never  again  shall  the  bugle  blast 

Waken  the  sleeper  that  lies  so  still  ; 
His  dream  of  home  and  glory  past, 

Fatal 's  the  '  work  '  of  the  shoddy-mill. 

Struck  by  '  shoddy  '  and  not  by  '  shells,' 

And  not  by  shot  our  brave  ones  fall ; 
Greed  of  gold  the  story  tells, 

Drop  the  mantle  and  spread  the  pall. 
Out  on  the  vampires  !  out  on  those 

Who  of  our  life-blood  take  their  fill ! 
No  meaner  '  traitor  '  the  nation  knows, 

Than  the  greedy  ghoul  of  the  shoddy-mill ! 


LINT. 

FIBRE  by  fibre,  shred  by  shred, 

It  falls  from  her  delicate  hand 
In  feathery  films,  as  soft  and  slow 
As  fall  the  flakes  of  a  vanishing  snow 

In  the  lap  of  a  summer  land. 

There  are  jewels  of  price  in  her  roseate  ears, 

And  gold  round  her  white  wrist  coils ; 
There  are  costly  trifles  on  every  hand, 
And  gems  of  art  from  many  a  land 
In  the  chamber  where  she  toils. 

A  rare  bird  sings  in  a  gilded  cage 

At  the  open  casement  near ; 
A  sun-ray  glints  through  a  swaying  bough, 
And  lights  with  a  diamond  radiance  now 

The  dew  of  a  falling  tear ! 


LINT.  l8l 

A  sob  floats  out  to  the  summer  air 

With  the  song-bird's  latest  trill ; 
The  gossamer  folds  of  the  drapery 
Are  waved  by  the  swell  of  a  long,  low  sigh, 

And  the  delicate  hands  are  still. 

"  Ah  !  beauty  of  earth  is  naught,  is  naught ! 

And  a  gilded  youth  is  vain  ! 
I  have  seen  a  sister's  scarred  face  shine 
With  a  youth  and  beauty  all  divine 

By  the  soldier's  couch  of  pain  ! " 

"  I  have  read  of  another  whose  passing  shade 

On  their  pillows  the  mangled  kissed 
In  the  far  Crimea !  "     There  are  no  more  tears, 
But  she  plucks  the  gems  from  her  delicate  ears, 
And  the  gold  from  her  slender  wrist. 

The  bird  still  sings  in  his  gilded  cage  .; 

But  the  Angel  in  her  heart 
Hath  stung  her  soul  with  a  noble  pain  ; 
And  beauty  is  naught,  and  youth  is  vain, 

While  the  Patriot's  wounds  still  smart ! 

Fibre  by  fibre,  shred  by  shred, 

Still  foil  from  her  delicate  hand 
The  feathery  films,  as  soft  and  slow 
As  fall  the  flakes  of  a  vanishing  snow 

In  the  lap  of  a  summer  land. 

There  are  crimson  stains  on  breasts  and  brows, 

And  fillets  in  ghastly  coils  ; 
The  walls  are  lofty,  and  white,  and  bare, 
And  moaning  echoes  roll  ever  there 

Through  the  chamber  where  she  toils. 

No  glitter  of  gold  on  her  slender  wrist, 
Nor  gem  in  her  roseate  ears ; 


182  "THE  PEACE  DEMOCRACY:' 

But  a  youth  and  a  beauty  all  divine 
In  the  face  of  the  Christian  maiden  shine, 
And  her  gems  are  the  soldier's  tears ! 

Harpers'   Weekly. 


THE  "PEACE  DEMOCRACY." 

BY   "  CHARITY   GRIMES." 

ItESOLUSIIUNS  0V  THE  CONCORD,  N.  II.,  "DIMMOCKRASSY,"  (SO- 
KALLED  NOT  IN  HONOR  0V  GINERAL  JACKSON.)  DEDI- 
KATED  TU  HON.  FRANKLIN  PIERCE,  THE  HERO  0V  MEX- 
ICCO,  AND  CHAIRMAN  0V  THE  KONVENSHUN. 

Resolved,  —  This  nation  's  goin'  tu  reuin,  — 
Old  Abram  Lincoln  's  baoimd  tu  strand  it. 

Thare  's  sum  awlfired  mischief  brevvin', 
We  Dimmykrats  can't  no  way  stand  it ! 

We  make  a  vaow,  from  this  time  forth, 

Tu  stop  awl  warfare  in  the  North. 

Resolved,  —  Thet  Lincoln  's  a  userper  — 

An  awful  skeery  wun  et  that,  — 
He  shall  not  lead  us  wun  step  further 

Then  we  've  a  mind  tu  go,  —  thet  's  flat ! 
We  luv  the  Guverment  ov  the  nation, 
But  go  agin  its  administrashun. 

Resolved,  —  This  war  shood  be  conduckted 
Most  viggorous,  by  the  laws  ov  peece. 

Thet  nigger  folks  may  be  abduckted 

Whereso  aour  Suthern  brethren  please ; 

And  whereso'er  a  tremblin'  slave  is, 

He  shood  be  given  tu  Jeff  Davis. 

Resolved,  —  The  stones  we  've  thrown  in  Dixie 
Hev  brought  us  tu  an  orful  pass. 


THE  LATEST  WAR-NEWS.  183 

We  let  aour  dander  rise  too  quickly ; 

We  shood  hev  gone  on  throwin'  grass. 
We  b'lieve  Vallandigham  a  saint : 
Woe  tu  the  man  whu  sez  he  ain't ! 

Resolved,  —  We  will  rekord  the  story, 

Thet  in  this  war  we  've  acted  wust : 
It 's  true,  the  Saouth  fired  on  "  Old  Glory ; "  * 

But  did  n't  we  go  and  histe  it  fust  ? 
We  might  hev  missed  the  war's  mischances 
Ef  we  hed  histed  olive-branches  ! 

Tharefore  we  form  a  resolushun 

Tu  make  all  Lincoln's  auders  void  ; 
Tu  put  his  ginerals  tu  konfushun, 

So  thet  aour  own  sha'n't  be  annoyed  ; 
And  fortify  aour  strong  position 
By  firing  guns  on  abbolition  ! 

We  '11  grasp  the  fiery  suthern  cross, 
And  bid  sich  fokes  ez  Butler  bear  it ! 

We  '11  kover  aour  defeat  and  loss 

With  treason's  garb  (naow  Davis  wears  it). 

We  skorn  deceit,  detest  hypockracy  — 

Make  way  thare  fur  the  Peace  Dimmockrassy  ! 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


THE  LATEST  WAR-NEWS. 

On  pale,  pale  face  !     Oh  helpless  hands  ! 

Sweet  eyes  by  fruitless  watching  wronged, 
Yet  turning  ever  towards  the  lands 

Where  war's  red  hosts  are  thronged. 

*  This  name,  fondly  given  by  our  volunteer  soldiers  to  the  flag, 
is  one  of  the  phrases  born  of  the  war  for  the  Republic. 


184  THE  LATEST   WAR-NEWS. 

She  shudders  when  they  tell  the  tale 
Of  some  great  battle  lost  and  won  ! 

Her  sweet  child-face  grows  old  and  pale, 
Her  heart  falls  like  a  stone  ! 

She  sees  no  conquering  flag  unfurled, 
She  hears  no  victory's  brazen  roar, 

But  a  dear  face,  —  which  was  her  world,  — 
Perchance  she  '11  kiss  no  more  ! 

Ever  there  comes  between  her  sight 
And  the  glory  that  they  rave  about 

A  boyish  brow,  and  eyes  whose  light 
Of  splendor  hath  gone  out. 

The  midnight  glory  of  his  hair, 

Where  late  her  fingers,  like  a  flood 

Of  moonlight,  wandered,  lingering  there. 
Is  stiff  and  dank  —  with  blood  ! 

She  must  not  shriek,  she  must  not  moan, 
She  must  not  wring  her  quivering  hands 

But  sitting  dumb  and  white  alone, 
Be  bound  with  viewless  bands. 

Because  her  suffering  life  enfolds 

Another  dearer,  feebler  life, 
In  death-strong  grasp  her  heart  she  holds, 

And  stills  its  torturing  strife. 

Tester  eve,  they  say,  a  field  was  won. 

Her  eyes  asks  tidings  of  the  fight ; 
But  tell  her  of  the  dead  alone 

Who  lay  out  in  the  night ! 

In  mercy  tell  her  that  7m  name 
Was  not  upon  that  fatal  list ; 


THE   CAVALRY  CHARGE.  185 

That  not  among;  the  heaps  of  slain 
Dumb  are  the  lips  she  's  kissed. 

Oh,  poor,  pale  child !      Oh,  woman  heart ! 

Its  weakness  triumphed  o'er  by  strength  ! 
Love  teaching  pain  discipline's  art, 

And  conquering  at  length  ! 


THE  CAVALRY  CHARGE. 

BY   EDMUND    C.    STEDMAX. 

OUR  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 
Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle : 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

Halt ! 

Each  carbine  sent  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  !     No  thoughts  of  home, 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge ! 

Cling  !  clang  !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall,  — 
Cut  left  and  right  ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall  !  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 

And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 
Wheel ! 


l86  THE    FISHERMAN  OF  BEAUFORT. 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 

Home,  and  good-night ! 


THE  FISHERMAN  OF  BEAUFORT. 

BY   MRS.    FRANCES   D.    GAGE. 

THE  tide  comes  up,  arid  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  still  the  fisherman's  boat, 
At  early  dawn  and  at  evening  shade, 

Is  ever  and  ever  afloat : 
His  net  goes  down,  and  his  net  comes  up, 

And  we  hear  his  song  of  glee ; 
"  De  fishes  dey  hates  de  ole  slave  nets, 

But  comes  to  de  nets  ob  de  free." 

The  tide  conies  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  the  oysterman  below 
Is  picking  away,  in  the  slimy  sands, 

In  the  sands  "  ob  de  long  ago." 
But  now  if  an  empty  hand  he  bears, 

He  shudders  no  more  with  fear  ; 
There  's  no  stretching-board  for  the  aching  bones, 

And  no  lash  of  the  overseer. 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  ever  I  hear  a  song, 
As  the  moaning  winds  through  the  moss-hung  oaks, 

Sweep  surging  ever  along. 
"  O  massa  white  man  !  help  de  slave, 

And  de  wife  and  chillen  too ; 
Eber  dey '11  work,  wid  de  hard  worn  hand, 

Ef  ell  gib  'em  de  work  to  do." 


SEWARD.  187 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

But  it  bides  no  tyrant's  word, 
As  it  chants  unceasing  the  anthem  grand 

Of  its  Freedom  to  the  Lord. 
The  fisherman  floating  on  its  breast 

Has  caught  up  the  key-note  true  : 
"  De  sea  works,  massa,  for  't  sef  and  God, 

And  so  must  de  brack  man  too. 

"  Den  gib  him  de  work,  and  gib  him  de  pay, 

For  de  chillen  an'  wife  him  love, 
And  de  yam  shall  grow,  and  de  cotton  shall  blow, 

And  him  nebber,  nebber  rove ; 
For  him  love  de  ole  Carlina  State, 

And  de  ole  magnolia  tree : 
Oh  !  nebber  him  trouble  de  icy  Norf, 

Ef  de  brack  folks  —  am  go  free." 


SEWARD. 

BY   A.    D.    F.    RANDOLPH. 

WELL,  be  it  so !     The  not  uncommon  fate 

Of  greatness  overtakes  thee  in  thy  prime : 
He  who  is  mighty  will  have  foes  who  hate,  — 
Thou  hast  false  friends,  who  only  consummate 

Their  own  destruction  in  attempting  thine. 
O,  peerless  Champion  of  the  Cause  so  Just, 

When  some,  o'er  zealous  now,  were  cold  or  mute, 
Thou,  with  sublimest  courage,  took  the  Trust 
And  priceless  venture,  conscious  that  thou  must 

Bear  scorn  of  those  who  would  thy  cause  dispute. 

Keep  heart !  the  Great  Hereafter  will  refute 
Each  slander  born  of  envy  or  of  hate, 

And  thus  thy  final  labors  will  compute  : 
"  He  Freedom  saved,  by  saving  first  the  State  ! " 


1 88     THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMPS. 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMPS. 

BY   J.    R.    M. 

FAR  away  in  the  piney  woods, 

Where  the  dews  foil  heavy  and  damp, 

A  soldier  sat  by  the  smouldering  fire 
And  sang  the  song  of  the  camp. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  weary  and  worn, 

It  is  not  to  feel  hunger  and  thirst, 
It  is  not  the  forced  march  nor  the  terrible  fight, 

That  seems  to  the  soldier  the  worst. 

"  But  to  sit  through  the  comfortless  hours,  — 
The  lonely,  dull  hours  that  will  come, — 

With  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his  eyes  on  the  fire, 
And  his  thoughts  on  visions  of  home. 

"  To  wonder  how  fares  it  with  those 
Who  mingled  so  late  with  his  life,  — 

Is  it  well  with  my  little  children  three  ? 
Is  it  well  with  my  sickly  wife  ? 

"  This  night-air  is  chill  to  be  sure, 

But  logs  lie  in  plenty  around ; 
How  is  it  with  them  where  wood  is  so  dear, 

And  the  cash  for  it  hard  to  be  found  ? 

"  Oh,  that  North  air  cuts  bitterly  keen, 

And  the  ground  is  hard  as  a  stone  ; 
It  would  comfort  me  just  to  know  that  they  sit 

By  a  fire  as  warm  as  my  own. 

"  And  have  they  enough  to  eat? 
My  lads  are  growing  boys, 


THE  SONG   OF   THE   CAMPS.  189 

And  my  girl  is  a  little  tender  thing, 
With  her  mother's  smile  and  voice. 

"  My  wife  she  should  have  her  tea, 

Or  maybe  a  sup  of  beer ; 
It  went  to  my  heart  to  look  on  her  face, 

So  white,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear. 

"  Her  form  it  is  weak  and  thin,  — 

She  would  gladly  wrork  if  she  could,  — 

But  how  can  a  \voman  have  daily  strength 
Who  wants  for  daily  food  ? 

"  My  oldest  boy  he  can  cut  wood, 

And  Johnny  can  carry  it  in  ; 
But  then,  how  frozen  their  feet  must  be 

If  their  bhoes  are  worn  and  thin  ! 

"  I  hope  they  don't  cry  with  the  cold  — 
Are  there  tears  in  my  little  girl's  eyes  ? 

O  God  !  say  peace  !  to  these  choking  fears, 
These  fears  in  my  heart  that  rise. 

"  Many  rich  folks  are  round  them,  I  know, 
And  their  hearts  are  not  hard  nor  cold ; 

They  would  give  to  my  wife  if  they  only  knew, 
And  my  little  one  three  years  old. 

"  They  would  go,  like  God's  angels  fair, 

And  enter  the  lowly  door, 
And  make  the  sorrowful  glad  with  gifts 

From  their  abundant  store. 

"  In  this  blessed  Christmas-time, 

When  the  great  gift  came  to  men, 
They  would  show,  by  their  gentle  and  generous  deeds, 

How  He  cometh  in  hearts  again. 


190  SOLDIER'S   TALK. 

"  And  my  sickly,  patient  wife, 

And  my  little  children  three, 
Would  be  kindly  warmed  and  fed  and  clothed 

As  part  of  Christ's  family. 

"  Well,  I  leave  it  all  with  God, 

For  my  sight  is  short  and  dim ; 
He  cares  for  the  falling  sparrow, 

My  dear  ones  are  safe  with  Him." 

So  the  soldier  watched  through  the  night, 
Through  the  dew-fall,  heavy  and  damp ; 

And  as  he  sat  by  the  smouldering  fire, 
He  sang  the  song  of  the  camp. 

ST.  PAUL,  Minn.  Church  Journal. 


SOLDIER'S  TALK. 

BY   CHARLES    G.    HALPIN. 

WE  have  heard  the  rebel  yell, 

We  have  heard  the  Union  shout, 
We  have  weighed  the  matter  very  well, 

And  mean  to  fight  it  out ; 
In  victory's  happy  glow, 

In  the  gloom  of  utter  rout, 
We  have  pledged  ourselves  —  Corne  weal  or  woe, 

By  Heaven  !  we  fight  it  out. 

'T  is  now  too  late  to  question 

What  brought  the  war  about ; 
'T  is  a  thing  of  pride  and  passion 

And  we  mean  to  fight  it  out. 
Let  the  u  big  wigs  "  use  the  pen, 

Let  them  caucus,  let  them  spout, 


SOLDIER'S    TALK.  j 

We  are  half  a  million  weaponed  men 
And  mean  to  fight  it  out. 

Our  dead,  our  loved,  are  crying 

From  many  a  stormed  redoubt, 
In  the  swamps  and  trenches  lying,  — 

"  Oh,  comrades,  fight  it  out ! 
'T  was  our  comfort  as  we  fell 

To  hear  your  gathering  shout, 
Rolling  back  the  rebels'  weaker  yell,  — 

God  speed  you,  fight  it  out !  " 

The  negro  —  free  or  slave  — 

We  care  no  pin  about, 
But  for  the  flag  our  fathers  gave 

We  mean  to  fight  it  out ; 
And  while  that  banner  brave 

Ont,  rebel  rag  shall  flout, 
With  volleying  arm  and  flashing  glaive 

By  Heaven  !  we  fight  it  out ! 

Oh,  we  've  heard  the  rebel  yell, 

We  have  heard  the  Union  shout, 
We  have  weighed  the  matter  very  well, 

And  mean  to  fight  it  out ; 
In  the  flush  of  perfect  triumph, 

And  the  gloom  of  utter  rout, 
We  have  sworn  on  many  a  bloody  field 

We  mean  to  fight  it  out  ! 

Harpers1  Weddy. 


PER   TENEBRAS  LVAIINA. 
PER  TENEBRAS  LUMINA. 

BY   MKS.    WHITNEY. 

I  KNOW  how,  through  the  golden  hours, 
When  summer  sunlight  floods  the  deep, 

The  fairest  stars  of  all  the  heaven 

Climb  up,  unseen,  the  effulgent  steep. 

Orion  girds  him  with  a  flame ; 

And  king-like,  from  the  eastward  seas, 
Comes  Aldebaran,  with  his  train 

Of  Hyades  and  Pleiades. 

In  far  meridian  pride,  the  Twins 

Build,  side  by  side,  their  luminous  throm-s ; 
And  Sirius  and  Procyon  pour 

A  splendor  that  the  day  disowns. 

And  stately  Leo,  undismayed, 

With  fiery  footstep  tracks  the  Sun, 

To  plunge  adown  the  western  blaze, 
Sublimely  lost  in  glories  won. 

I  know,  if  I  were  called  to  keep 

Pale  morning  watch  with  grief  and  pain, 

Mine  eyes  should  see  their  gathering  might 
Rise  grandly  through  the  gloom  again. 

And  when  the  winter  solstice  holds 
In  his  diminished  path  the  sun,  — 

When  hope,  and  growth,  and  joy  are  o'er, 
And  all  our  harvesting  is  done,  — 

When,  stricken  like  our  mortal  life, 

Darkened  and  chill,  the  year  lays  down 


THE   CONFEDERATE  PRIMEll.  193 

The  summer  beauty  that  she  wore, 

Her  summer  stars  of  harp  and  crown,  — 

Thick  trooping  with  their  golden  tread 

They  come,  as  nightfall  fills  the  sky, 
Those  strong  and  solemn  sentinels, 

To  hold  their  mightier  watch  on  high. 

Ah  !  who  shall  shrink  from  dark  and  cold, 

Or  fear  the  sad  and  shortening  days. 
Since  God  doth  only  so  unfold 

The  wider  glory  to  his  gaze  ? 

Since  loyal  Truth,  and  holy  Trust, 

And  kingly  Strength  defying  Pain, 
Stern  Courage,  and  sure  Brotherhood 

Are  born  from  out  the  depths  again  ? 

Dear  country  of  our  love  and  pride  ! 

So  is  thy  stormy  winter  given  ! 
So,  through  the  terrors  that  betide, 

Look  up,  and  hail  thy  kindling  heaven ! 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


THE  CONFEDERATE  PRIMER.* 

AT  Nashville's  fall 
We  sinned  all. 

*  Only  those  can  appreciate  this  burlesque  who  know  the  Alpha 
bet  Rhymes  in  the  old  New-England  Primer,  beginning  — 

In  Adam's  fall 

We  sinned  all. 
And  containing  also  these  impressive  rhymes, 

The  cat  doth  play 

And  after  slay. 

The  royal  oak  it  was  the  tree 
That  saved  his  royal  majesty. 
13 


AN  IDYL. 

At  Number  Ten 
We  sinn'd  again. 

Thy  purse  to  mend 
Old  Floyd  attend. 

Abe  Lincoln  bold 
Our  ports  doth  hold. 

Jeff  Davis  tells  a  lie, 
And  so  must  you  and  I. 

Isham  doth  mourn 
His  case  forlorn. 

Brave  Pillow's  flight 
Is  out  of  sight. 

Buell  doth  play 
And  after  slay. 

Yon  oak  will  be  the  gallows-tree 
Of  Richmond's  fallen  majesty. 

Nashville  Union. 


AN  IDYL.* 

Dedicated  to  the  Georgia  Regiments,  and  others  of  the  C.  S.  R., 
that  is,  the  Confederate  States  Resurrectionists. 

BY   II.    BEDLOW. 

You,  forsooth,  and  valor  brothers  ! 

You  the  types  of  knighthood's  braves  ! 

*  I  should  willingly  have  omitted  these  verses,  which  seem  like 
a  rhymed  combination  of  the  Papal  anathema  with  a  treatise  on 
purulent  diseases.  But  they  are  the  expression,  gross  and  liendi?h 
though  it  be,  of  a  feeling  excited  in  some  people  by  the  language 


AN  IDYL.  195 

Offspring  of  degraded  mothers,  — 

Suckled  at  the  dugs  of  slaves  ! 
You  at  Freedom's  holy  altars, 

Chanting  your  blaspheming  psalm  ; 
Candidates  for  loyal  halters  ; 

Confed'rates  in  a  monstrous  sham ! 

Catiline's  own  spawn  and  scions, 

Daring  what  no  manhood  dares  ; 
Gascons  with  the  lungs  of  lions, 

But  the  speed  and  hearts  of  hares  ! 
Apostates  from  the  faith  of  sages ; 

Fools,  confounding  wrong  and  right  ; 
Rushing  on  the  thick-bossed  segis 

Of  fair  Freedom's  belted  knight  ! 

Swaggering  braggarts,  peculators  ! 

Swindlers  of  the  swell-mob  grade  ! 
Fratricidal,  perjured  traitors  ! 

Heroes  of  an  ambuscade  ! 
Miscreants,  scorn  of  all  the  nation ; 

Priesthood  of  the  gyves  and  lash  ; 
Ruffians,  worthier  flagellation 

Than  the  nobler  slaves  you  gash  ! 

As  'gainst  hell's  insurgent  banners, 

Ithuriel  to  the  battle  posts, 
Freemen  march  with  loud  hosannas, 

Freedom  lord  of  loyal  hosts. 
Some  must  fall  in  this  endeavor, 

But  where  each  sacred  corse  is  found, 
To  the  nation's  heart  forever, 

That  dear  spot  is  holy  ground. 

of  most  and  the  acts  of  many  rebels  during  the  Avar.  There  was  not 
a  little  of  such  writing  on  the  rebel  side,  as  the  reader  may  see;  but 
in  all  the  multitudinous  mass  of  verses  that  I  have  examined  I  have 
found  only  this  example  of  its  kind  among  loyal  writers.  The  fact 
that  it  is  unique  is  another  reason  for  its  preservation. 


196  AN  IDYL. 

Were  you  littered,  whelps  inhuman, 

To  bay  great  freedom's  climbing  moon  ? 
Abortions  of  the  womb  of  woman  ! 

Dear  saints  in  heaven  !  a  boon,  a  boon ! 
Curse  me  now,  each  foul  hyena, 

Charnel  burglar,  ghoul  or  worse ; 
Make  his  leprous  body  leaner, 

Than  a  three-months'  buried  corse. 

In  each  joint's  articulation, 

Plant  an  anguish  fixed  and  sore  ; 
Through  the  ducts  of  circulation, 

Madness  and  delirium  pour. 
In  idiot  frenzy  let  him  tattle, 

How  he  rifled  loyal  graves  ; 
Let  his  limbs  with  palsy  rattle, 

Like  a  gibbet  swinging  knaves. 

Pain  and  spasm  lancinating, 

Fill  his  days  and  nights  with  moans ; 
Cramp  and  rack  excruciating, 

Twitch  his  cursed  coward  bones. 
In  foretaste  of  meed  hereafter, 

Mock  his  fevered  thirst  with  streams ; 
Let  him  hear  hell's  goblin  laughter, 

In  convulsed  and  nightmare  dreams. 

By  disease's  vitiation, 

Corrupt  his  scoundrel  carcass  more ; 
Loathsome  forms  of  suppuration  — 

Abscess,  ulcer,  cancerous  sore. 
In  his  own  putrescence  stifled ; 

By  a  gangrene  agonized ; 
Horrors  of  the  graves  he 's  rifled, 

In  his  own  flesh  —  vitalized. 

Let  him  —  seeming  dead  —  but  lying 
In  trance's  awful  consciousness, 


AN  IDYL.  197 

Yield  the  grave  its  rights  —  undying  — 

Corruption  claiming  its  redress. 
With  his  death-glazed  sight,  beholding 

All  the  dark  funereal  show  ; 
Feeling  living  fibre  mouldering, 

And  the  crawling  worms  also. 

Let  him  see  grim  insurrection, 

(Rebellion  by  rebellion  paid,) 
Arson,  pillage,  fierce  defection, 

Blazing  homestead,  murderous  raid. 
Or  hear  to  merry  music  treading, 

Ransomed  slaves,  rejoicing  well, 
For  him,  an  undersong  pervading 

Muttering?  of  defrauded  hell. 

Failing  this  —  then  retribution 

Blight  his  hopes,  disgrace  his  name, 
Blast  his  roof-tree  with  pollution, 

Drag  his  household  down  to  shame. 
Let  consuming  hate  and  malice 

Gnaw  his  heart  like  vultures  —  then 
Commend  unto  his  lips  a  chalice, 

Poisoned  with  the  scorn  of  men. 

Skulking,  (guilty  fear  confounding,) 

In  his  forests  dank  and  grim, 
Every  loyal  bugle  sounding 

Like  the  judgment  trump  to  him. 
Let  his  last  breath  be,  when  dying, 

Miasma  from  his  Southern  bogs ; 
Dead,  then  leave  his  carrion  lying, 

"  In  that  last  ditch  "  —  like  a  do^'s. 


198         THE  OLD  SERGEANT. 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.* 

THE  Carrier  cannot  sing  to-day  the  ballads 

With  which  he  used  to  go, 
Rhyming  the  grand-rounds  of  the  happy  New-Years 

That  are  now  beneath  the  snow  ; 

For  the  same  awful  and  portentous  shadow 

That  overcast  the  earth, 
And  smote  the  land  last  year  with  desolation, 

Still  darkens  every  hearth. 

And  the  Carrier  hears  Beethoven's  mighty  death-march 

Come  up  from  every  mart, 
And  he  hears  and  feels  it  breathing  in  his  bosom, 

And  beating  in  his  heart. 

And  to-day,  like  a  scarred  and  weatherbeaten  veteran, 

Again  he  comes  along, 
To  tell  the  story  of  the  Old  Year's  struggles, 

In  another  New- Year's  song. 

And  the  song  is  his,  but  not  so  with  the  story  ; 

For  the  story,  you  must  know, 
Was  told  in  prose  to  Assistant-Surgeon  Austin, 

By  a  soldier  of  Shiloh  : 

By  Robert  Burton,  who  was  brought  up  on  the  Adams, 

With  his  death-wound  in  his  side  ; 
And  who  told  the  story  to  the  Assistant-Surgeon 

On  the  same  night  that  he  died  : 

But  the  singer  feels  it  will  better  suit  the  ballad, 
If  all  should  deem  it  right, 

*  This  poem  was  distributed  on  the  first  day  of  the  year,  18G3, 
by  the  carriers  of  the  Louisville  Journal. 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.  199 

To  sing  the  story  as  if  what  it  speaks  of 
Had  happened  but  last  night : 

"  Come  a  little  nearer,  Doctor  —  Thank  you  !  let  me  take 

the  cup  ! 
Draw  your  chair  up  —  draw  it  closer  — just  another  little 

sup  ! 
Maybe  you  may  think  I  'm  better,  but  I  'm  pretty  well 

used  up  — • 
Doctor,   you  've  done   all  you   could  do,  but  I  'in  just  a 

going  up. 

"  Feel   my  pulse,  sir,   if  you  want  to,  but  it  is  no   use  to 

try." 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  surgeon,  as  he  smothered  down 

a  sigh, 

"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say  die  !  " 
"  What   you  say  will  make   no  difference,  Doctor,   when 

you  come  to  die. 

"  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?  "     "  You  were  very 

faint,  they  say ; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have  I 

been  away  '?  " 
"  No,  my  venerable  comrade."     "  Doctor,  will  you  please 

to  stay  ? 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't  have 

long  to  stay  ! 

"  I  have  got  my  inarching  orders,  and  am  ready  now  to 

g°; 

Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ?  —  but  it  could  n't  have 

been  so  — 
For   as   sure  as   I  'in   a   sergeant   and   was   wounded   at 

Shiloh, 
I  've  this  very  night  been  back  there  —  on  the  old  field 

of  Shiloh  ! 


200  THE  OLD  SERGEANT. 

"  You  may  think  it  all  delusion  —  all  the  sickness  of  the 

brain  — 

If  you  do,  you  are  mistaken,  and  mistaken  to  my  pain ; 
For  upon  my  dying  honor,  as  I  hope  to  live  again, 
I  have  just  been  back  to  Shiloh,  and  all  over  it  again  ! 

"  This  is  all  that  I  remember :  the  last  time  the  Lighter 

came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises  much 

the  same ; 
He   had  not   been   gone   five   minutes   before   something 

called  my  name  — 
'  ORDERLY  SERGEANT  ROBERT  BURTON!' — just  that 

way  it  called  my  name. 

"  Then  I  thought,  who  could  have  called  me  so  distinctly 

and  so  slow  ? 
It  can't    be    the    Lighter,    surely ;    he   could    not    have 

spoken  so ; 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir  ! '  but  I  could  n't  make 

it  go, 
For  I  could  n't  move  a  muscle,  and   I  could  n't  make  it 

go! 

"  Then  I  thought,  it 's  all  a  nightmare  —  all  a  humbug 
and  a  bore ! 

It  is  just  another  grapevine*  and  it  won't  come  any 
more ; 

But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  words  as 
before,  — 

4  ORDERLY  SERGEANT  ROBERT  BURTON  ! '  —  more  dis 
tinctly  than  before ! 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remenber,  till  a  sudden  burst  of  light, 
And  I  stood  beside  the  river,  where  wre  stood  that  Sun 
day  night, 

*  I  am  unable  to  explain  this  slang,  which  appears  to  be  Western, 
and  born  of  the  war. 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.  201 

Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite, 
When   the  river  seemed  perdition  and   all  hell   seemed 
opposite  ! 

"  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  with  all  its 
power, 

And  I  heard  a  bugle  sounding  as  from  heaven  or  a  tower ; 

And  the  same  mysterious  voice  said :  '  IT  is — THE  ELEV 
ENTH  HOUR  ! 

ORDERLY  SERGEANT  —  ROBERT  BURTON  —  IT  is  THE 

ELEVENTH    HOUR ! ' 

"  Doctor  Austin,  what  day  is  this  ?  "     "  It  is  Wednesday 

night,  you  know." 
"  Yes  !     To-morrow  will  be  New- Year's,  and  a  right  good 

time  below  ! 
What   time   is   it,    Doctor   Austin  ?  "       "  Nearly   twelve." 

"  Then  don't  you  go  ! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened — all  this  —  not  an  hour 

ago! 

"  There  was   where   the   gunboats  opened  on   the  dark, 

rebellious  host, 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  his   last  guns  upon  the 

coast ; 
There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same,  or  else 

their  ghost ; 
And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over  —  or 

its  ghost  ! 

"  And  the  whole  field  lay  before  me,  all  deserted  far  and 

wide  : 
There  was  where   they  fell  on  Prentiss  —  there  McCler- 

nand  met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where  Hurl- 

but's  heroes  died  ; 
Lower   down,   where   Wallace   charged   them,   and   kept 


202  THE   OLD  SERGEANT. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was  of 
the  canny  kin  ; 

There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where  Rous 
seau  waded  in ; 

There  Me  Cook  '  sent  them  to  breakfast,'  and  we  all  began 
to  win  ; 

There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me  just  as  we  began 
to  win. 

"  Now  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence  over  everything  was 

spread ; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle,  and  the  old  hat  on  my 

head, 
I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I  was 

dead  ; 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon   the 

dead. 

"  Death  and  silence !   Death  and  silence  !   starry  silence 

overhead  ! 

And  behold  a  mighty  tower,  as  if  builded  to  the  dead, 
To  the  heaven  of  the  heavens  lifted  up  its  mighty  head  ! 
Till  the  Stars  and   Stripes  of  heaven  all  seemed  waving 

from  its  head  ! 

"  Round  and  mighty-based,  it  towered  —  up  into  the  in 
finite  ! 

And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft  so 
bright ; 

For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine ;  and  a  winding  stair  of 
light 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it,  till  it  wound  clear  out  of 
sight ! 

"  And  behold !  as  I  approached  it  with  a  rapt  and  daz 
zled  stare, 

Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending  the 
great  stair, 


THE   OLD    SERGEANT.  203 

Suddenly  the    solemn   challenge  broke   of,    '  Halt ! '  and 

'  Who  goes  there  ?  ' 
'  I  'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  '  if  you  are.'     '  Then  advance,  sir, 

to  the  stair.' 

"  I   advanced  ;    that   sentry,  Doctor,  was   Elijah   Ballan- 

tyne  — 
First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the 

line. 
'  Welcome  !  my  old  sergeant,  welcome  !    Welcome  by  that 

countersign  ! ' 
And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there  under  this  old  cloak  of 

mine  ! 

"  As  he  grasped  my  hand  I  shuddered  —  thinking  only  of 
the  grave  ; 

But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward,  with  a  bright  and 
bloodless  glaive  : 

'  That  's  the  way,  sir,  to  headquarters.'  '  What  head 
quarters  ?  '  'Of  the  brave  ! ' 

'  But  the  great  tower  ?  '  '  That  was  builded  of  the  great 
deeds  of  the  brave  ! ' 

"  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform  of 

light ; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and 

bright : 
'  Ah  ! '    said  he,    '  you   have  forgotten  the  new  uniform 

to-night ! 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock 

to-night ! ' 

"  And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting  there, 

and  I  — 
Doctor,  it  is  hard  to  leave  you  —  Hark  !   God  bless  you 

all !     Good-bye  ! 


204  AV  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack,  when 

I  die, 
To  my  son  —  my  son  that 's  coming  —  he  won't  get  here 

till  I  die  ! 

"  Tell   him   his   old  father  blessed  him  as  he  never  did 

before ; 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket  —  Hark  !  a  knock  is  at  the 

door  !  — 
Till   the  Union  —  see  !    it   opens  !  "      "  Father  !    father  ! 

speak  once  more  !  " 
"  Bless  you  ! "  gasped  the  old  gray  Sergeant ;  and  he  lay 

and  said  no  more ! 

When  the  surgeon  gave  the  heir-son  the  old   Sergeant's 

last  advice, 
And  his  musket  and  his   knapsack,  how  the  fire  flashed 

in  his  eyes  ! 
He  is  on  the  march  this  morning,  and  will  march  on  till 

he  dies ; 
He  will  save  this  bleeding  country,  or  will  fight  until  he 

dies  ! 


IN  THE   SEPULCHRE. 

O  KEEPER  of  the  Sacred  Key 
And  the  Great  Seal  of  Destiny  ! 
Whose  eye  is  the  blue  canopy, 

Look  down  upon  the  world  once  more,  and  tell  us  what 
the  end  will  be. 

Three  cold  bright  moons  have  filled  and  wheeled, 
And  the  white  cerement  that  concealed 
The  lifeless  Figure  on  the  shield 

Is  turned  to  verdure,  and  the  land  is  now  one  mighty 
battle-field. 


IN  THE  SEPULCHRE.  205 

And  the  twin  brothers  that  we  said 
Had  clashed  above  the  fallen  head, 
Heedless  of  all  on  which  they  tread, 

Now  crimson  with  each  other's  blood  the  vernal  drapery 
of  the  dead. 

And  all  their  children,  far  and  wide, 
That  are  so  greatly  multiplied, 
Rise  up  in  frenzy  and  divide, 

And  all,  according  to  their  might,  unsheathe  the  sword 
and  choose  their  side. 

I  see  the  champion  sword-strokes  flash, 
I  see  them  fall  and  hear  them  clash, 
I  hear  the  murderous  engines  crash, 

I  see  a  brother  stoop  to  loose  his  foeman-brother's  bloody 
sash. 

I  hear  the  curses  and  the  thanks, 
I  see  the  mad  charge  on  the  flanks,  — 
The  rents  —  the  gaps  —  the  broken  ranks,  — 
And    seen    the   vanquished    driven    headlong    down    the 
river's  bridgeless  banks. 

I  see  the  death-gripe  on  the  plain, 
The  grappling  monsters  on  the  main ; 
I  see  the  thousands  that  are  slain, 

And  all  the  speechless  suffering  and  agony  of  heart  and 
brain. 

I  see  the  torn  and  mangled  corpse, 
The  dead  and  dying  heaped  in  scores, 
The  heedless  rider  by  his  horse, 

The  wounded  captives  bayoneted   through   and   through 
without  remorse. 

I  see  the  dark  and  bloody  spots, 

The  crowded  rooms  and  crowded  cots, 


206  IN  THE  SEPULCHRE. 

The  bleaching  bones,  the  battle-blots  ; 
And  write  on  many  a  nameless  grave  a  legend  of  forget- 
me-nots. 

I  see  the  assassin  crouch  and  fire ; 
I  see  his  victim  fall  —  expire  — 
I  see  the  victor  creeping  nigher, 

To  strip  the  dead  —  he  turns  the  head  —  the  face  !  —  the 
son  beholds  life  sire  ! 

I  hear  the  dying  sufferer  cry, 
With  his  crushed  face  turned  to  the  sky ; 
I  see  him  crawl  in  agony 

To  the  foul  pool,  and  bow  his  head  into  its  bloody  slime 
and  die. 

And  in  the  low  sun's  bloodshot  rays  — 
Portentous  of  the  coming  days  — 
I  see  the  oceans  blush  and  blaze, 

And    the    emergent    continent   between    them   wrapt    in 
crimson  haze. 

And  I  foreorder  and  ordain, 
That  ere  the  sixth  red  moon  shall  wane 
Those  brothers'  swords  shall  cross  again, 
And  the  True  shall  smite  down  the  False  within  the  Vir 
gin's  waste  domain. 

And  lo !  the  bloody  dew  shall  fall, 
And  my  great  darkness,  like  a  pall 
Of  deep  compassion,  cover  all, 

Till  the  dead  nation  rise,  transformed  by  truth,  to  tri 
umph  over  all. 

Thus  saith  the  Keeper  of  the  Key 
And  the  Great  Seal  of  Destiny, 


UNCLE  SAM.  207 

Whose  eye  is  the  blue  canopy, 

And  casts  the  pall  of  his  great  darkness  over  a) I  the  land 
and  sea. 

Louisville  .Jnurnul. 


UNCLE    SAM. 

AIR  —  "  Tom  Brown." 

THE  king  will  take  the  queen, 

And  the  queen  will  take  the  jack  ; 
And  down  we  march  to  Dixie's  land, 

With  knapsacks  at  our  back. 
Chorus  —  Here  's  to  you,  Uncle  Sam, 

And  your  flag  shall  be  our  chart ; 
Here  's  to  you,  with  hand  and  heart ; 
And  for  you  we  '11  win  a  battle  or  two, 
And  that  before  we  part ; 
Here's  to  you,  Uncle  Sam!     {Repeat. 

The  jack  will  take  the  ten, 

And  the  ten  will  take  the  nine  ; 
And  over  Richmond's  rebel  walls 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  must  shine. 
Chorus  —  Here  's  to  you,  etc. 

The  nine  will  take  the  eight, 

And  the  eight  will  take  the  seven ; 

And  out  of  Old  Virginia's  soil 

Secession  shall  be  driven. 
Chorus  —  Here  's  to  you,  etc. 

The  seven  will  take  the  six, 

And  the  six  will  take  the  five ; 
King  Davis  and  his  wretched  crew 

From  Dixie's  land  we  '11  drive. 
Chorus  —  Here  's  to  you,  etc. 


208    WHEN  JOHNNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME. 

The  five  \vill  take  the  four, 

And  the  four  will  take  the  tray  ; 

And  all  the  ragged  rebel  rogues 

We  '11  shortly  sweep  away. 
Chorus  —  Here  's  to  you,  etc. 

The  tray  will  take  the  deuce, 

But  the  deuce  can't  take  the  ace ; 

And  so  the  Devil  and  Davis  both 

Must  leave  their  power  and  place. 
Chorus  —  Here 's  to  you,  etc. 


WHEN  JOPINNY  COMES  MARCHING  HOME.* 

WHEN  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again, 

Hurrah !  hurrah ! 
We  '11  give  him  a  hearty  welcome  then, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

The  men  will  cheer,  the  boys  will  shout, 
The  ladies,  they  will  all  turn  out, 

And  we  '11  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  conies  marching  home. 

CHORUS   TO   EACH   VERSE. 

The  men  will  cheer,  the  boys  will  shout, 
The  ladies,  they  will  all  turn  out, 

And  we  '11  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 

The  old  church-bell  will  peal  with  joy, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah ! 
To  welcome  home  our  darling  boy, 

Hurrah !  hurrah ! 

*  A  very  popular  street-song  during  the  last  two  years  of  the 
war.     It  was  sung  to  a  kind  of  jig,  in  the  minor  key. 


SONNET.  209 

The  village  lads  and  lasses  say, 
With  roses  they  will  strew  the  way ; 

And  we  '11  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 

Get  ready  for  the  jubilee, 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  7. 

We  '11  give  the  hero  three  times  three, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
The  laurel-wreath  is  ready  now 
To  place  upon  his  loyal  brow ; 

And  we  '11  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  inarching  home. 

Let  love  and  friendship  on  that  day, 

Hurrah !  hurrah  ! 
Their  choicest  treasures  then  display, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

And  let  each  one  perform  some  part, 
To  fill  with  joy  the  warrior's  heart ; 

And  we  '11  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 
Chorus  —  The  men  will  cheer,  the  boys  will  shout, 
The  ladies,  they  will  all  turn  out, 

And  we  '11  all  feel  gay, 
When  Johnny  comes  marching  home. 


SONNET. 

BY    GEORGE   II.    BOKEK. 

BLOOD,  blood  !  the  lines  of  every  printed  sheet 
Through  their  dark  arteries  reek  with  running  gore; 
At  hearth,  at  board,  before  the  household  door, 
'Tis  the  sole  subject  with  which  neighbors  meet. 
Girls  at  the  feast,  and  children  in  the  street 
14 


210  THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

Prattle  of  horrors  —  flash  their  little  store 
Of  simple  jests  against  the  cannon's  roar, 

As  if  mere  slaughter  kept  existence  sweet. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  I  quail  at  the  familiar  way 

This  fool  —  the  world  —  disports  his  jingling  cap; 
Murdering  or  dying,  with  one  grin  agap  ! 

Our  very  Love  comes  draggled  from  the  fray,  — 
Smiling  at  victory,  scowling  at  mishap, 
With  gory  Death  companioned  and  at  play. 


SONNET. 

BY   GEORGE   H.    BOKER. 

On  !  craven,  craven  !  while  my  brothers  fall 
Like  grass  before  the  mower,  in  the  fight, 
I,  easy  vassal  to  my  own  delight, 

Am  bound  with  flowers,  —  a  far  too  willing  thrall. 

Day  after  day  along  the  streets  I  crawl, 

Shamed  in  my  manhood,  reddening  at  the  sight 
Of  every  soldier  who  upholds  the  Right, 

With  no  more  motive  than  his  country's  call. 

I  love  thee  more  than  honor ;  ay,  above 

That  simple  duty,  conscience  plain  and  clear 
To  dullest  minds,  whose  summons  all  men  hear. 

Yet,  as  I  blush  and  loiter,  who  should  move 
In  the  grand  marches,  I  cannot  but  fear 
That  thou  wilt  scorn  me  for  my  very  love. 


THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  RKAD. 

THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 
With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 


WHEN  THIS  CRUEL   WAR  IS   OVER.        211 

The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 

Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 
And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 

Her  heart  shall  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  ever  dewed  the  field  of  glory. 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword 

'Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  gravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder ; 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  war  around  him  rattle, 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  a  field  of  battle. 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

When  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor. 


WHEN  THIS  CRUEL  WAR  IS  OVER* 

DEAREST  love,  do  you  remember 
When  we  last  did  meet, 

*  Of  all  the  songs  which  the  war  produced,  this  was  the  most 
sung,  except,  perhaps,  the  John  Brown  Song.  At  one  time  the  air 
was  heard  out  of  doors  and  in  public  places  constantly,  —  sung, 
whistled,  hummed,  or  played  on  barrel-organs.  Sitting  with  open 
windows  one  evening  in  the  summer  of  18G3,  I  heard  this  air  at 
intervals  of  not  more  than  live  minutes  (it  seemed  without  inter 
mission)  from  eight  o'clock  until  long  after  midnight. 


212     WHEN  THIS   CRUEL    WAR  IS  OVER. 

How  you  told  me  that  you  loved  me, 

Kneeling  at  your  feet  ? 
O,  how  proud  you  stood  before  me 

In  your  suit  of  blue, 
When  you  vowed  to  me  and  country 

Ever  to  be  true. 
Chorus  —  Weeping,  sad  and  lonely, 

Hopes  and  fears,  how  vain ; 
Yet  praying 

When  this  cruel  war  is  over, 
Praying  that  we  meet  again. 

When  the  summer  breeze  is  sighing 

Mournfully  along, 
Or  when  autumn  leaves  are  falling, 

Sadly  breathes  the  song. 
Oft  in  dreams  I  see  thee  lying 

On  the  battle-plain, 
Lonely,  wounded,  even  dying, 

Calling,  but  in  vain. 
Chorus  —  Weeping,  sad,  &c. 

If,  amid  the  din  of  battle, 

Nobly  you  should  fall, 
Far  away  from  those  who  love  you, 

None  to  hear  you  call, 
Who  would  whisper  words  of  comfort  ? 

AVho  would  soothe  your  pain  ? 
Ah,  the  many  cruel  fancies 

Ever  in  my  brain  ! 
Chorus  —  Weeping,  sad,  &c. 

But  our  country  called  you, 'darling, 

Angels  cheer  your  way  ! 
While  our  nation's  sons  are  fighting, 

We  can  only  pray. 
Nobly  strike  for  God  and  liberty, 


APRIL  20,  1864.  213 

Let  all  nations  see 
How  we  love  the  starry  banner, 

Emblem  of  the  free  ! 
Chorus  —  Weeping,  sad  and  lonely, 

Hopes  and  fears,  how  vain ; 
Yet  praying 

When  this  cruel  war  is  over, 
Praying  that  we  meet  again. 


APRIL  20,  1864. 

BY   CHARLES    G.    HALPIN. 

THREE  years  ago  to-day 

We  raised  our  hands  to  heaven, 
And  on  the  rolls  of  muster 

Our  names  were  thirty-seven  ; 
There  were  just  a  thousand  bayonets, 

And  the  swords  wei*e  thirty-seven, 
As  we  took  the  oath  of  service 

WTith  our  right  hands  raised  to  heaven. 

Oh,  't  was  a  gallant  day, 

In  memory  still  adored, 
That  day  of  our  sun-bright  nuptials 

With  the  musket  and  the  sword ! 
Shrill  rang  the  fifes,  the  bugles  blared, 

And  beneath  a  cloudless  heaven 
Twinkled  a  thousand  bayonets, 

And  the  swords  were  thirty-seven. 

Of  the  thousand  stalwart  bayonets 

Two  hundred  march  to-day  ; 
Hundreds  lie  in  Virginia  swamps, 

And  hundreds  in  Maryland  clay ; 
Arid  other  hundreds,  less  happy,  drag 

Their  shattered  limbs  around, 


214  GRANT. 

And  envy  the  deep,  long,  blessed  sleep 
Of  the  battle-field's  holy  ground. 

For  the  swords  —  one  night,  a  week  ago, 

The  remnant,  just  eleven, 
Gathered  around  a  banqueting  board 

With  seats  for  thirty-seven  ; 
There  were  two  limped  in  on  crutches, 

And  two  had  each  but  a  hand 
To  pour  the  wine  and  raise  the  cup 

As  we  toasted  "  Our  flag  and  land  ! " 

And  the  room  seemed  filled  with  Avhispers 

As  we  looked  at  the  vacant  seats, 
And,  with  choking  throats,  we  pushed  aside 

The  rich  but  untasted  meats ; 
Then  in  silence  we  brimmed  our  glasses, 

As  we  rose  up — just  eleven  — 
And  bowed  as  we  drank  to  the  loved  and  the  dead 

Who  had  made  us  thirty-seven  ! 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


GRANT. 

BY    GEORGE   II.    BOKER. 

As  Moses  stood  upon  the  flaming  hill, 
With  all  the  people  gathered  at  his  feet, 
Waiting  in  Sinai's  valley,  there  to  meet 

The  awful  bearer  of  Jehovah's  will,  — 

So,  Grant,  thou  stand'st,  amidst  the  trumpets  shrill, 
And  the  wild  fiery  storms  that  flash  and  beat 
In  iron  thunder  and  in  leaden  sleet, 

Topmost  of  all,  and  most  exposed  to  ill. 

O,  stand  thou  firm,  great  leader  of  our  race, 
Hope  of  our  future,  till  the  times  grow  bland, 
And  into  ashes  drops  war's  dying  brand ; 


THE  B 0  UN TY- JUMPER.  2  1 5 

Then  let  us  see  thee,  with  benignant  grace, 
Descend  thy  height,  God's  glory  on  thy  face, 
And  the  law's  tables  safe  within  thy  hand  ! 


THE    BOUNTY-JUMPER.* 

BY   J.    CROSS   CASTEN. 

MY  song  is  of  a  fast  young  man  whose  name  was  Billy 

Wires  ; 

He  used  to  run  with  the  machine  and  go  to  all  the  fires  : 
But  as  he  loved  a  Soldier's  life,  and  wished  strange  things 

to  see, 
So  the  thought  struck  him  that  he  would  go  and  jump 

the  Bounti-e. 

At  once  he  went  to  see  a  friend,   whose  maiden  name 

was  Cal, 

When  they  started  to  the  office  of  the  Provost  Marshi-al. 
The  Surgeon  found  that  they  would  pass,  as  either  had  no 

scars, 
And  they  received  the  Bounty  of  Five  Hundred  Dol-li-ars. 

They  were  then  marched  into  a  room  that  was  extremely 

near, 
Where   they  were  dressed  in  the  latest  style  as   Union 

Cavaliers ; 

Into  this  room  they  were  locked  up,  no  longer  to  be  free : 
Says   Billy,  "the   first  chance  that  I  get  I'll  jump  the 

Bounti-e ! " 

Three  days  elapsed,  when  they  were  marched  to  the  depot 

through  the  street : 
Says  Cal  to  Billy,  "  Let 's  get  away,  for  nimble  are  our 

feet." 

*  The  author  calls  this  song  "A  pathetic  ditty,  written  for  Pony 
Smith,  the  favorite  Ethiopian  Comedian,"  which  perhaps  means 
negro  minstrel. 


2l6  THE  BOUNTY-JUMPER. 

As  they  got  near  the  depot  the  guard  told  all  to  stop ; 
When  Billy  and  Cal  as  quick  as  you  please  popped  into 
a  Policy  shop. 

When  the  guard   found   out   that  they  were  gone  they 

did  n't  know  what  to  do  : 
They  went  in  every  Gin-mill,  and  searched  the  place  all 

through ; 

But  their  search  was  fruit-i-less,  as  you  may  plainly  see, 
For,  says  Billy  to  Cal,  "  We  're  hunkey  boys  that  have 

jumped  the  Bounti-e." 

As   soon   as   they  found   that   the  guard  had  gone  they 

resolved  upon  a  spree ; 

They  travelled  all  around  the  town  the  Elephant  to  see ; 
They  treated  everybody,   and   to   please    all   they   tried 

hard ; 
But   there  was  one  whom  they  could  not  please,  for  he 

happened  to  be  the  guard. 

Poor  Cal  was  seized  and  hurried  to  jail,  his  time  there  to 

serve  out ; 
But  Billy  escaped  through  the  back  door,  for  he  knew 

that  route. 
That  night,  as  Billy  lay  on  his  couch,  his  sin  he  plainly 

did  see, 
In  cheating  the  Government  out  of  funds  in  jumping  the 

Bounti-e. 

He  rolled  all  over  that  night  in  bed  —  to  sleep  he  vainly 

tried  ; 
He   pitied   Cal  who  in  pris-u-on  was,  and    resolved   on 

suicide  ; 
He  bought  six  dozen  wrought-iron  spikes,  and  swallowed 

them  three  by  three, 
And  that  was  the  last  of  Billy  Wires,  who  jumped  the 

Bounti-e. 


THE  SONG  OF  KLLP  AT  RICK'S   TROOPERS.  217 


THE  SONG  OF  KILPATRICK'S  TROOPERS. 

UP  from  the  ground  at  break  of  day, 

When  the  bugle's  note  is  heard,  — 
From  the  cold,  hard  ground,  where  all  night  we  lay, 

To  rise  with  the  waking  bird. 
Right  merrily  our  sabres  ring 

As  we  scour  along  on  our  steeds ; 
Oh,  true  and  tried  are  the  hearts  of  those 

Whom  the  brave  Kilpatrick  leads  ! 

Away,  away,  o'er  the  plain  we  go, 

Away  on  our  steeds  so  fleet ! 
Ah,  well  the  foeman's  path  we  know 

By  the  print  of  the  foeman's  feet ! 
So  on  we  ride  while  our  sabres  ring 

A  merrily  sounding  tune, 
By  field  and  river  and  wooded  steep, 

To  the  halt  which  comes  with  noon. 

And  then  in  the  forest's  welcome  shade, 

'Neath  the  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 
We  rest  till  the  burning  heat  is  past 

From  the  Southern  noonday  sky. 
Then  up  and  away  o'er  the  rolling  plain, 

Away  on  our  gallant  steeds  ! 
What  foe  is  there  whom  we  would  not  dare 

When  the  brave  Kilpatrick  leads  ? 

Of  Northern  steel  our  good  blades  are, 

Our  carbines  are  true  of  aim ; 
The  Southern  traitor  hears  with  dread 

The  sound  of  our  leader's  name. 
Oh,  wild  is  the  life  we  troopers  live, 

But  a  merrier  none  may  know, 
To  scour  the  plain  on  our  gallant  steeds 

In  search  of  the  traitorous  foe  ! 


2l8        THE  SONG   OF  GRANT'S  SOLDIERS. 

And  when  on  the  battle-field  we  meet, 

And  loud  on  the  echoing  air 
The  bugles  sound,  and  quick  in  the  sun 

Our  blades  gleam  bright  and  bare, 
Away  we  go  at  the  one  word  charge, 

With  a  cheer,  at  the  flying  foe  ; 
While  the  bullets  sing,  and  our  scabbards  ring, 

And  the  bugles  loudly  blow  ! 

Oh,  long  shall  the  tale  of  our  deeds  be  told 

When  this  cruel  war  shall  cease, 
On  winter  eves,  by  the  glowing  hearth, 

AVhen  the  land  shall  be  blessed  with  peace. 
And  long  shall  live  in  the  hearts  of  all 

Our  valiant  leader's  fame, 
And  our  children  lisp  with  their  infant  lips 

The  brave  Kilpatrick's  name. 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


THE  SONG  OF  GRANT'S  SOLDIERS. 

PILE  on  the  rails  !     Come,  comrades,  all, 

We  '11  sing  a  song  to-night ; 
To-morroAv,  when  the  bugles  call, 

Be  ready  for  the  fight. 
Be  ready  then  with  loud  hurrah 

To  battle  or  to  die  ; 
When  Grant  shall  yield,  the  Northern  star 

Will  fade  from  out  the  sky. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Before  us  lies  the  rebel  host, 
Their  watch-fires  we  can  see ; 


THE  SONG   OF  GRANTS  SOLDIERS.     219 

We  laugh  to  hear  the  traitor  boast 

Of  Southern  victory. 
Three  cheers  for  Grant,  and  one  more  cheer, 

Until  the  woods  ring  back  ! 
Ah,  well  the  rebel  chief  may  fear 

The  blood-hound  on  his  track. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

In  Freedom's  cause  our  blades  were  drawn  : 

The  traitor  yet  shall  feel 
Before  the  day  of  Peace  shall  dawn 

How  strong  is  Northern  steel. 
Three  cheers  for  Grant,  my  gallant  men  ! 

Give  three  loud,  roaring  cheers  ! 
Until  the  foe  within  his  den 

Shall  tremble  while  he  hears. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Thus  far  we  've  come  through  fire  and  flood ; 

Still  further  on  we  '11  press, 
Although  the  way  be  red  with  blood 

As  through  the  wilderness. 
Then  cheer,  brave  comrades ;  let  the  night 

King  with  your  loud  hurrahs 
For  Grant,  who  knows  so  well  to  fight, 

And  for  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Our  longing  eyes  shall  yet  behold 

Proud  Richmond's  slender  spires ; 
Our  children's  children  will  be  told 

How  fought  their  valiant  sires. 
Look  well  to  cap  and  cartridge,  too ; 

And  as  we  onward  press 
We  '11  cheer  for  Grant,  who  brought  us  through 

The  bloody  wilderness. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 


220  DRIVING  HOME   THE    COWS. 

Brave  soldiers  of  the  Lord  are  we, 

In  solid  ranks  we  come  ! 
The  Southern  traitors  yet  shall  see 

How  light  the  Northern  u  scum." 
Be  ready,  then,  with  loud  hurrah, 

To  battle  or  to  die  ; 
When  Grant  shall  yield,  the  Northern  star 

Will  drop  from  out  the  sky. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Harpers'  Weekly. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 

OUT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass, 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go ! 

Two  already  were  lying  dead, 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 


DRIVING  HOME   THE    COWS.  221 

Though  cold  Avas  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bats  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late ; 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done ; 
But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 

He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one. 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind  ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swang  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew ; 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ;  * 


*  Yet  there  are  twelve  thousand  nine  hundred  and  nineteen 
graves  of  Union  soldiers  at  the  one  rebel  prison-pen  of  Anderson- 
ville;  while  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in  which  the  rebel  pris 
oners  were  kept,  there  went  back  into  the  rebel  armies  some  of 
"the  finest  lighting  material"  the  rebel  Commissioner  of  Ex 
change  ever  saw. 


222  ON  PICKET  DUT Y. 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb, 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Harpers'  Magazine. 


ON  PICKET  DUTY. 

WITHIN  a  green  and  shadowy  wood, 
Circled  with  spring,  alone  I  stood : 
The  nook  was  peaceful,  fair,  and  good. 

The  wild-plum  blossoms  lured  the  bees, 
The  birds  sang  madly  in  the  trees, 
Magnolia-scents  were  on  the  breeze. 

All  else  was  silent ;  but  the  ear 
Caught  sounds  of  distant  bugle  clear, 
And  heard  the  bullets  whistle  near,  — 

When  from  the  winding  river's  shore 

The  Rebel  guns  began  to  roar, 

And  ours  to  answer,  thundering  o'er ; 

And  echoed  from  the  wooded  hill, 

Repeated  and  repeated  still, 

Through  all  my  soul  they  seemed  to  thrill. 

For,  as  their  rattling  storm  awoke, 
And  loud  and  fast  the  discord  broke, 
In  rude  and  trenchant  words  they  spoke. 


ON  PICKET  DUTY.  223 

"  We  hate  !  "  boomed  fiercely  o'er  the  tide  ; 
"  We  fear  not !  "  from  the  other  side  ; 
"  We  strike  ! "  the  Rebel  guns  replied. 

Quick  roared  our  answer,  "  We  defend  !  " 
"  Our  rights  !  "  the  battle-sounds  contend  ; 
"  The  rights  of  all !  "  we  answer  send. 

"  We  conquer !  "  rolled  across  the  wave  ; 
"  We  persevere  !  "  our  answer  gave  ; 
"  Our  Chivalry  !  "  they  wildly  rave. 

"  Ours  are  the  brave  !"    "  Be  ours  the  free  !  " 
"  Be  ours  the  slave,  the  masters  we  !  " 
"  On  us  their  blood  no  more  shall  be  !  " 

As  when  some  magic  word  is  spoken, 
By  which  a  wizard  spell  is  broken, 
There  was  a  silence  at  that  token. 

The  wild  birds  dared  once  more  to  sing, 
I  heard  the  pine  bough's  whispering, 
And  trickling  of  a  silver  spring. 

Then,  crashing  forth  with  smoke  and  din, 
Once  more  the  rattling  sounds  begin, 
Our  iron  lips  roll  forth,  "  We  win  !  " 

And  dull  and  wavering  in  the  gale 
That  rushed  in  gusts  across  the  vale 
Came  back  the  faint  reply,  "  We  fail  !  " 

And  then  a  word,  both  stern  and  sad, 

From  throat  of  huge  Columbiad,  — 

"  Blind  fools  and  traitors  !  ye  are  mad  ! " 


224  ON  PICKET  DUTY. 

Again  the  Rebel  answer  came, 
Muffled  and  slow,  as  if  in  shame,  — 
"  All,  all  is  lout  !  "  in  smoke  and  flame. 

Now  bold  and  strong  and  stern  as  Fate 
The  Union  guns  sound  forth,  "  We  wait  ! ' 
Faint  comes  the  distant  cry,  "  Too  late  !  " 

"  Return  !  return  ! "  our  cannon  said  ; 

And,  as  the  smoke  rolled  overhead, 

"  We  dare  not ! "  was  the  answer  dread. 

Then  came  a  sound,  both  loud  and  clear, 
A  godlike  word  of  hope  and  cheer,  — 
"  Forgiveness  !  "  echoed  far  and  near  ; 

As  when  beside  some  death-bed  still 
We  watch,  and  wait  God's  solemn  will, 
A  bluebird  warbles  his  soft  trill. 

I  clenched  my  teeth  at  that  blest  word, 
And,  angry,  muttered,  "  Not  so,  Lord  ! 
The  only  answer  is  the  sword  ! " 

I  thought  of  Shiloh's  tainted  air, 

Of  Richmond's  prisons,  foul  and  bare, 

And  murdered  heroes,  young  and  fair,  — • 

Of  block  and  lash  and  overseer, 
And  dark,  mild  faces  pale  with  fear, 
Of  baying  hell-hounds  panting  near. 

But  then  the  gentle  story  told 
My  childhood,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Rang  out  its  lessons  manifold. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE    WAR.  22$ 

O  prodigal,  and  lost !  arise 

And  read  the  welcome  blest  that  lies 

In  a  kind  Father's  patient  eyes  ! 

Thy  elder  brother  grudges  not 

The  lost  and  found  should  share  his  lot, 

And  wrong  in  concord  be  forgot. 

Thus  mused  I,  as  the  hours  went  by, 
Till  the  relieving  guard  drew  nigh, 
And  then  was  challenge  and  reply. 

And  as  I  hastened  back  to  line, 

It  seemed  an  omen  half  divine 

That  "  Concord  "  was  the  countersign. 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  WAR. 

PEACE  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome  ; 
And  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain  New-England  home. 
Within,  a  murmur  of  low  tones 

And  sighs  from  hearts  oppressed, 
Merging  in  prayer  at  last,  that  brings 

The  balm  of  silent  rest. 


I  've  closed  a  hard  day's  work,  Marty, 
The  evening  chores  are  done ; 

And  you  are  weary  with  the  house, 
And  with  the  little  one. 
15 


226  THE  HEART  OF  THE    WAR. 

But  he  is  sleeping  sweetly  now, 

With  all  our  pretty  brood  ; 
So  come  and  sit  upon  my  knee, 

And  it  will  do  me  good. 

Oh,  Marty  !  I  must  tell  you  all 

The  trouble  in  my  heart, 
And  you  must  do  the  best  you  can 

To  take  and  bear  your  part. 
You  've  seen  the  shadow  on  my  face, 

You  've  felt  it  day  and  night ; 
For  it  has  filled  our  little  home, 

And  banished  all  its  light. 

I  did  not  mean  it  should  be  so, 

And  yet  I  might  have  known 
That  hearts  that  live  as  close  as  ours 

Can  never  keep  their  own. 
But  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times, 

And,  do  whate'er  I  may, 
My  heart  grows  sad  about  the  war, 

And  sadder  every  day. 

I  think  about  it  when  I  work, 

And  when  I  try  to  rest, 
And  never  more  than  when  your  head 

Is  pillowed  on  my  breast ; 
For  then  I  see  the  camp-fires  blaze, 

And  sleeping  men  around, 
Who  turn  their  faces  toward  their  homes, 

And  dream  upon  the  ground. 

I  think  about  the  dear,  brave  boys, 

My  mates  in  other  years, 
Who  pine  for  home  and  those  they  love, 

Till  I  am  choked  with  tears. 
With  shouts  and  cheers  they  marched  away 

On  glory's  shining  track, 


THE  HEART  OF  THE    WAR.  227 

But,  all !  how  long,  how  long  they  stay ! 
How  few  of  them  come  back ! 

One  sleeps  beside  the  Tennessee, 

And  one  beside  the  James, 
And  one  fought  on  a  gallant  ship 

And  perished  in  its  flames. 
And  some,  struck  down  by  fell  disease, 

Are  breathing  out  their  life ; 
And  others,  maimed  by  cruel  wounds, 

Have  left  the  deadly  strife. 

Ah,  Marty  !  Marty  !  only  think 

Of  all  the  boys  have  done 
And  suffered  in  this  weary  war ! 

Brave  heroes,  every  one  ! 
Oh !  often,  often  in  the  night, 

I  hear  their  voices  call : 
"Come  on  and  help  us!     Is  it  right 

That  we  should  bear  it  all  ?  " 

And  when  I  kneel  and  try  to  pray, 

My  thoughts  are  never  free, 
But  cling  to  those  who  toil  and  fight 

And  die  for  you  and  me. 
And  when  I  pray  for  victory, 

It  seems  almost  a  sin 
To  fold  my  hands  and  ask  for  what 

I  will  not  help  to  win. 

Oh !  do  not  cling  to  me  and  cry, 

For  it  will  break  my  heart  ; 
I  'm  sure  you  'd  rather  have  me  die 

Than  not  to  bear  my  part. 
You  think  that  some  should  stay  at  home 

To  care  for  those  away  ; 
But  still  I  'm  helpless  to  decide 

If  I  should  go  or  stay. 


228          THE  DRUMMER-BOYS   BURIAL. 

For,  Marty,  all  the  soldiers  love, 

And  all  are  loved  again ; 
And  I  am  loved,  and  love,  perhaps, 

No  more  than  other  men. 
I  cannot  tell  —  I  do  not  know  — 

Which  way  my  duty  lies, 
Or  where  the  Lord  would  have  me  build 

My  fire  of  sacrifice. 

I  feel  —  I  know  —  I  am  not  mean  ; 

And  though  I  seem  to  boast, 
I'm  sure  that  I  would  give  my  life 

To  those  who  need  it  most. 
Perhaps  the  Spirit  will  reveal 

That  which  is  fair  and  right ; 
So,  Marty,  let  us  humbly  kneel 

And  pray  to  Heaven  for  light. 


Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air, 

And  stars  within  the  dome ; 
And,  underneath,  in  dim  repose, 

A  plain,  New-England  home. 
Within,  a  widow  in  her  weeds, 

From  whom  all  joy  is  flown, 
Who  kneels  among  her  sleeping  babes, 

And  weeps  and  prays  alone ! 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY'S  BURIAL. 

ALL  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the  startled 

valley  swept ; 
All  night  long  the  stars  in  heaven  o'er  the  slain  sad  vigils 

kept. 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY'S  BURIAL.          229 

Oh  the  ghastly,  upturned  faces  gleaming  whitely  through 

the  night ! 
Oh  the  heaps  of  mangled  corses  in  that  dim  sepulchral 

light ! 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  faded,  and  at  length  the  morn 
ing  broke ; 

But  not  one  of  all  the  sleepers  on  that  field  of  death 
awoke. 

Slowly  passed  the  golden  hours  of  that  long  bright  sum 
mer  day, 

And  upon  that  field  of  carnage  still  the  dead  unburied 
lay: 

Lay  there  stark  and  cold,  but  pleading  with  a  dumb,  un 
ceasing  prayer, 

For  a  little  dust  to  hide  them  from  the  staring  sun  and 
air. 

But  the  foemen  held  possession  of  that  hard-won  battle 

plain, 
In  unholy  wrath  denying  even  burial  to  our  slain. 

Once  again   the   night  dropped   round  them  —  night  so 

holy  and  so  calm 
That  the  moonbeams  hushed  the  spirit,  like  the  sound  of 

prayer  or  psalm. 

On  a  couch  of  trampled  grasses,  just  apart  from  all  the 

rest, 
Lay  a  fair  young  boy,  with  small  hands  meekly  folded  on 

his  breast. 

Death  had  touched  him  very  gently,  and  he  lay  as  if  in 

sleep ; 
Even  his  mother  scarce  had  shuddered  at  that  slumber 

calm  and  deep. 


230          THE  DRUMMER  BOYS  BURIAL. 

For  a  smile  of  wondrous  sweetness  lent  a  radiance  to  the 

face, 
And   the   hand   of  cunning   sculptor   could   have   added 

nought  of  grace 

To  the  marble  limbs  so  perfect  in  their  passionless  repose, 
Robbed  of  all  save  matchless  purity  by  hard,  unpitying 
foes. 

And  the  broken  drum  beside  him  all  his  life's  short  story 

told: 
How  he  did  his  duty  bravely  till  the  death-tide  o'er  him 

rolled. 

Midnight  came  with  ebon  garments  and  a  diadem  of  stars, 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery  planet 
Mai's. 

Hark  !  a  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  and  of  voices  whisper 
ing  low,  — 

Was  it  nothing  but  the  young  leaves,  or  the  brooklet's 
murmuring  flow  ? 

Clinging   closely  to   each   other,   striving   never   to   look 

round 
As  they  passed  with  silent  shudder  the  pale  corses  on  the 

ground, 

Came   two   little  maidens,  —  sisters,  —  with   a   light   and 

hasty  tread, 
And  a  look  upon  their  faces,  half  of  sorrow,  half  of  dread. 

And  they  did.  not  pause  nor  falter  till,  with  throbbing 
hearts,  they  stood 

Where  the  Drummer-Boy  was  lying  in  that  partial  soli 
tude. 


THE  DRUMMER  BOY'S  BURIAL.          231 

They  had  brought  some  simple  garments  from  their  ward 
robe's  scanty  store, 

And  two  heavy  iron  shovels  in  their  slender  hands  they 
bore. 

Then  they  quickly  knelt  beside  him,  crushing  back  the 

pitying  tears, 
For  they  had  no  time  for  weeping,  nor  for  any  girlish 

fears. 

And  they  robed  the  icy  body,  while  no  glow  of  maiden 
shame 

Changed  the  pallor  of  their  foreheads  to  a  flush  of  lam 
bent  flame. 

For  their  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that  hour  of 

sorest  need, 
And  they  felt  that  Death  was  holy,  and  it  sanctified  the 

deed. 

But  they  smiled  and  kissed  each  other  when  their  new, 

strange  task  was  o'er, 
And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonted  garments 

wore. 

Then  with  slow  and  weary  labor  a  small  grave  they  hol 
lowed  out, 

And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  that 
lay  about. 

But  the  day  was  slowly  breaking  ere  their  holy  work  was 

done, 
And  in  crimson  pomp  the  morning  again  heralded  the  sun. 

And  then  those  little  maidens  —  they  were  children  of 

our  foes  — 

Laid  the  body  of  our  Drummer-Boy  to  undisturbed  repose. 

Harpers^  Mayazine. 


232  THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

(Mobile  Bay,  August  5,  1804.) 

BY   II.    H.    BROWMELL,    U.    S.    N. 

"  On  the  forecastle,  Ulf  the  Red 

AVatched  the  lashing  of  the  ships. 
'  If  the  Serpent  lie  so  far  ahead, 
We  shall  have  hard  work  of  it  here,' 
Said  he." 

THREE  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 
The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 

The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled, 

The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 
We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 

And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahamas  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  Avarm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  Avithered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet,  coastwise  as  we  cruised  or  lay, 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 

By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.  233 

Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 

Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines,  — 
The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds, 

And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 

Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare, 
Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer  !  * 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 

Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 

Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 

Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 
Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood ; 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and  earth-work,  far  away, 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time  —  but  to  the  strong 

The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came ; 
And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame ! 

"  Man  your  starboard  battery  !  " 

Kimberly  shouted ; 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  mid  roar  and  smoke, 
On  to  victory ! 

None  of  us  doubted,  — 

*  The  flag-ship  of  Richard  I. 


234  THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

No,  not  our  dying,  — 
Farragut's  Flag  was  flying  ! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 

Morgan  roared  on  our  right  — 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 
With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  fight ! 

Ha,  old  ship  !  do  they  thrill, 
The  brave  two  hundred  scars 
You  got  in  the  River- Wars  ? 
That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill, 

(Surgery  savage  and  hard,) 
Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 
Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 
Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 
And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 
At  the  Brooklyn  Navy-Yard  ! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown, 
(Wont  of  old  renown,)  — 
But  every  ship  was  drest 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day  ; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay,  — 
Every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue,  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut, 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 
On  we  sailed,  two  by  two,  — 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.  23$ 

That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Steadily  nearing  the  head, 
The  great  Flag- Ship  led,  — 

Grandest  of  sights  ! 
On  her  lofty  mizen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights. 
So  we  went,  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  mid  the  roar 

Of  the  rebel  guns  ashore, 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state, 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows : 
Here,  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows,  — 

Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer  ! 
Talk  to  them  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer! 

On  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 

We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 
That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid ; 
Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 

And  baited  villainous  well, 
Right  in  our  path  were  set 

Three  hundred  traps  of  hell ! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn  ! 
There,  while  the  cannon 
Hurtled  and  thundered,  — 


236  THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

(Ah  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn  !) 
Caught  by  the  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath, 

Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred  ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave ; 
In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument, 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing,) 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  trade, 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 

Closing  up  in  their  stations : 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 

Of  battles  and  of  nations, 

(Christening  the  generations,) 
When  valor  were  all  too  late, 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored  ; 
From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief, 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  Chief,  — 
"  Go  on  !  "  —  't  was  all  he  said  ; 

Our  helm  was  put  to  the  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee,  — 
On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 

With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three, 
(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay),  — 

There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.  237 

And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss,  — 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft !  — 
In  a  sullen  ring,  at  bay, 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 

Raking  us,  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 
Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot ; 
How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung ! 
And  the  water-batteries  played 
With  their  deadly  cannonade 
Till  the  air  around  us  rung ; 
So  the  battle  raged  and  roared  — 
Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made  ! 
How  they  leaped,  the  tongues  of  flame, 

From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip  ! 
How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 
Shook  the  great  ship  ! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 

Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 

Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 
And  falling  in  oaken  showers : 

But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew ! 
Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 

You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 

Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well,  — 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 
And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 

Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck ; 
And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 

All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 


238  THE  BA  Y  FI  GUT. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor : 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy  Niger, 

But  there  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger ! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  burn  ; 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 

And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 

In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 

Broadsides  thundering  away, 
And  lightning  from  every  port  — 

Scene  of  glory  and  dread  ! 
A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 

With  flashes  of  fiery  red  ; 
The  thunder  raging  below, 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead ! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar, 

So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  Foe, 
Moving  grimly  and  slow, 
They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 

Where  the  darkest  batteries  frowned,  — 


THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

Death  in  the  air  all  round, 
And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath  ! 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead, 
All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 

Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red ; 
But  soon,  as  once  and  agen 

Fore  and  aft  we  sped, 

(The  firing  to  guide  or  check,) 

You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 
On  the  ghastly  human  wreck 

(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men  ! ) 

Red,  from  main-mast  to  bitts  ! 

Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale  ! 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch  ! 

Red,  o'er  netting  and  rail ! 
And  ever,  with  steady  con, 

The  ship  forged  slowly  by; 
And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 

And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 

How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 
Right  in  front  of  our  dead 
Fighting  square  abreast  — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 
All  spotted  with  black  and  red,  — 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood  ! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile, 

Worth  all  the  weary  time  ; 
Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 

To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime ! 

Fear  ?     A  forgotten  form ! 

Death  ?     A  dream  of  the  eyes  ! 


239 


240  THE   BA  Y  FIGHT. 

We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 
That  roared  through  the  angry  skies 

One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew  : 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 

Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers  ? 

Would  the  fleet  get  through  ? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew : 

Would  the  fleet  win  through  ? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail, 

(How  aforetime  they  've  fought !) 
But  Murder  may  yet  prevail,  — 

They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 
Therewith  one  hard  fierce  thought, 
Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 
Han  like  fire  through  the  ship : 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank ! 

A  dimmer  Renown  might  strike 
If  Death  lay  square  alongside  ; 

But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 
She  must  fight,  whatever  betide : 

When  the  War  is  a  tale  of  old, 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died  ! 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win, 
The  enemy  turned  and  fled  : 
And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach, 

And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 


THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in ; 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 
Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  —  when  well  up  the  Bay, 

And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet, 
(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey,) 
Shifting  his  helm  midway, 

Sheered  off,  and  ran  for  the  fleet ; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them,  gun  for  gun, 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram, 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 

Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 
'T  was  just  one  savage  hour 

Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 
With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 

Our  glasses  around  we  aim,  — 
What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 

Our  Philippi  —  aground  and  in  flame  ! 

Below,  't  was  still  all  a-roar, 
As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  Fort  had  slacked, 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been)  ; 
And  now,  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead, 
And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 
16 


24I 


242  THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 

And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag ; 

When  lo  !  looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag  : 

The  Ram  is  again  under  way, 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag ! 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 

Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 
Ever  on  bow  and  beam 

Our  Monitors  pounded  away,  — 
How  the  Chickasaw  hammered  away  ! 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  win, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in, 
Under  full  head  of  steam  ; 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work ; 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag !) 
The  Lackawana  hit  fair  ; 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork,  — 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizzen-shroud, 

(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  o'erwhelm,) 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud  : 

"  Hard-a-starboard  your  helm  ! 
Starboard  !  and  run  him  down  !  " 

Starboad  it  was  ;  and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.  243 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 

Men  that  had  looked  on  death 
In  battle  and  stormy  weather ; 

Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 

When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 
The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 

Dray  ton,  courtly  and  wise, 

Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 
(You  hardly  had  known  him  now,  — 

The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes !) 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel ! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 

A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us  ; 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 

And  a  voice  yelled  :  "  Hard-a-port ! 
Hard-a-port !  —  here  's  the  damned  Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us  !  " 

He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul ; 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl, 

He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun ; 
But,  as  he  passed  in  his  pride, 
(Rasping  right  alongside  !) 

The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder-tones, 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide, 

And  cracking  his  timber  bones  ! 

Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 
The  great  Lackawana  came  down 

Full  tilt  for  another  blow : 

We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed ;  but,  for  all  our  pains, 


244  THEi  BAY  FIGHT. 

Rammed  the  old  Hartford  instead, 
Just  for'ard  the  mizzen-chains  ! 

Ah  !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 
And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 

As  she  took  us  right  on  end! 

(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel,  — 
She  was  under  full  steam), — 

With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 

Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 
Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam ! 

A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay ; 
(Rib  and  plankshear  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge !) 
Here,  after  all,  we  go ; 
The  old  ship  is  gone  !  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind  then  ;  at  him  again  ! 

His  flurry  now  can't  last  long  ; 
He  11  never  again  see  land  ; 
Try  that  on  him,  Marchand ! 

On  him  again,  brave  Strong  ! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 

Full  on  his  beam  we  bore ; 
But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 
Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log,  — 

He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this,  he  had  found  it  hot : 

Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  thing, 
Hammering  with  solid  shot, 
And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow  — 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose ; 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.  245 

Life  or  renown  ?  —  which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose  ? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold,  — 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem  ? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland : 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight ! 

Can  he  strike  ?     By  Heaven,  't  is  true  ! 

Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White ! 

Up  went  the  White !  Ah,  then. 
The  hurrahs  that,  once  and  agen, 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men, 

All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight ! 
Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark, 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 

Answered  as  best  they  might,  — 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 

And  cheering  for  God  and  Right ! 

Ended  the  mighty  noise, 
Thunder  of  forts  and  ships, 

Down  we  went  to  the  hold  ! 
Oh,  our  dear  dying  boys ! 

How  we  pressed  their  poor  brave  lips, 

(Ah,  so  pallid  and  cold  !) 
And  held  their  hands  to  the  last 
(Those  that  had  hands  to  hold). 

Still  thee,  O  woman  heart ! 
(So  strong  an  hour  ago),  — 


246  THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

If  the  idle  tears  must  start, 
'T  is  not  in  vain  they  flow. 

They  died,  our  children  dear, 

On  the  drear  berth-deck  they  died  ; 

Do  not  think  of  them  here,  — 

Even  now  their  footsteps  near 

The  immortal,  tender  sphere,  — 

(Land  of  love  and  cheer  ! 
Home  of  the  Crucified  !) 

And  the  glorious  deed  survives. 

Our  threescore,  quiet  and  cold, 
Lie  thus,  for  a  myriad  lives 

And  treasure-millions  untold,  — 
(Labor  of  poor  men's  lives, 
Hunger  of  weans  and  wives, 

Such  is  war-wasted  gold.) 

Our  ship  and  her  fame  to-day 

Shall  float  on  the  storied  Stream, 

When  mast  and  shroud  have  crumbled  away, 
And  her  long  white  deck  is  a  dream. 

One  daring  leap  in  the  dark, 

Three  mortal  hours,  at  the  most,  — 

And  hell  lies  stiff  and  stark 

On  a  hundred  leagues  of  coast. 

For  the  mighty  Gulf  is  ours,  • — 
The  bay  is  lost  and  won, 
An  Empire  is  lost  and  won ! 
Land,  if  thou  yet  hast  flowers. 
Twine  them  in  one  more  wreath 

Of  tenderest  white  and  red, 
(Twin  buds  of  glory  and  death !) 

For  the  brows  of  our  brave  dead,  — 
For  thy  Navy's  noblest  Son. 


THE  BAY  FIGHT.  247 

Joy,  O  Land,  for  thy  sons, 

Victors  by  flood  and  field  ! 
The  traitor  walls  and  guns 

Have  nothing  left  but  to  yield  — 
(Even  now  they  surrender  !) 

And  the  ships  shall  sail  once  more, 

And  the  cloud  of  war  sweep  on 
To  break  on  the  cruel  shore,  — 

But  Craven  is  gone,  — 

He  and  his  hundred  are  gone. 

The  flags  flutter  up  and  down, 

At  sunrise  and  twilight  dim, 
The  cannons  menace  and  frown,  — 

But  never  again  for  him,  — 

Him  and  the  hundred. 

The  Dalgrens  are  dumb, 

Dumb  are  the  mortars ; 
Never  more  shall  the  drum 

Beat  to  colors  and  quarters : 

The  great  guns  are  silent. 

O  brave  heart  and  loyal ! 

Let  all  your  colors  dip  ; 

Mourn  him,  proud  Ship  ! 
From  main-deck  to  royal. 

God  rest  our  Captain,  — 

Rest  our  lost  hundred. 

Droop,  flag  and  pennant ! 

What  is  your  pride  for  ? 

Heaven,  that  he  died  for, 
Rest  our  Lieutenant,  — 

Rest  our  brave  threescore. 


248  THE  BAY  FIGHT. 

O  Mother  Land  !  this  weary  life 
We  led,  we  lead,  is  'long  of  thee ; 

Thine  the  strong  agony  of  strife, 
And  thine  the  lonely  sea. 

Thine  the  long  decks  all  slaughter-sprent, 
The  weary  rows  of  cots  that  lie 

With  wrecks  of  strong  men,  marred  and  rent, 
'Neath  Pensacola's  sky. 

And  thine  the  iron  caves  and  dens 

Wherein  the  flame  our  war-fleet  drives ; 

The  fiery  vaults,  whose  breath  is  men's 
Most  dear  and  precious  lives. 

Ah,  ever,  when  with  storm  sublime 
Dread  Nature  clears  our  murky  air, 

Thus  in  the  crash  of  falling  crime 
Some  lesser  guilt  must  share. 

Full  red  the  furnace  fires  must  glow 
That  melt  the  ore  of  mortal  kind  : 

The  Mills  of  God  are  grinding  slow, 
But  ah,  how  close  they  grind ! 

To-day  the  Dahlgren  and  the  drum 
Are  dread  Apostles  of  His  Name  ; 

His  Kingdom  here  can  only  come 
By  chrism  of  blood  and  flame. 

Be  strong  :  already  slants  the  gold 

Athwart  these  wild  and  stormy  skies ; 

From  out  this  blackened  waste,  behold, 
What  happy  homes  shall  rise  ! 

But  see  thou  well  no  traitor  gloze, 

No  striking  hands  with  Death  and  Shame, 


.  THE   CHICAGO  SURRENDER.  249 

Betray  the  sacred  blood  that  flows 
So  freely  for  thy  name. 

And  never  fear  a  victor  foe,  — 

Thy  children's  hearts  are  strong  and  high  ; 
Nor  mourn  too  fondly,  —  well  they  know 

On  deck  or  field  to  die. 

Nor  shalt  thou  want  one  willing  breath, 
Though,  ever  smiling  round  the  brave, 

The  blue  sea  bear  us  on  to  death, 
The  green  were  one  wide  grave. 

V.  S.  Flag  Shi^  Hartford, 
Mobile  Bay,  August,  1804. 

Harpers'1  Magazine. 


THE  CHICAGO  SURRENDER.* 

BY   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

WHAT  !  hoist  the  white  flag  when  our  triumph  is  nigh  ? 
What  !  crouch  before  Treason  ?  make  Freedom  a  lie  ? 
What !  spike  all  our  guns  when  the  foe  is  at  bay, 
And  the  rags  of  his  black  banner  dropping  away  ? 
Tear  down  the  strong  name  that  our  nation  has  won, 
And  strike  her  brave  bird  from  his  home  in  the  sun  ? 

*  The  Democratic  Party  Convention  for  the  nomination  of  a  can 
didate  to  oppose  President  Lincoln,  of  which  Mr.  August  Behnont 
was  temporary  chairman,  and  Mr.  Horatio  Seymour  permanent 
chairman,  and  which  resolved,  among  other  things,  that  "  four 
years  of  failure  to  restore  the  Union  by  the  experiment  of  war,'' 
and  "  public  liberty  and  private  right  alike  stricken  down,"  "  de 
mand  that  immediate  efforts  be  made  for  a  cessation  of  hostilities;  " 
—  also  that  "  the  sympathy  of  the  Democratic  party  is  heartily 
and  earnestly  extended  to  the  soldiers  of  our  army,"  was  held  on 
the  20th  of  August,  1864. 


250  THE  CHICAGO  SURRENDER. 

He  's  a  coward  who  shrinks  from  the  lift  of  the  sword ; 
He  's  a  traitor  who  mocks  at  the  sacrifice  poured ; 
Nameless  and  homeless  the  doom  that  should  blast 
The  knave  who  stands  idly  till  peril  is  past ; 
But  he  who  submits  when  the  thunders  have  burst 
And  victory  dawns,  is  of  cowards  the  worst  ! 

Is  the  old  spirit  dead  ?     Are  we  broken  and  weak, 
That  cravens  so  shamelessly  lift  the  white  cheek 
To  court  the  swift  insult,  nor  blush  at  the  blow, 
The  tools  of  the  treason  and  friends  of  the  foe  ? 
See  !  Anarchy  smiles  at  the  Peace  which  they  ask, 
And  the  eyes  of  Disunion  flash  out  through  the  mask  ! 

Give  thanks,  ye  brave  boys,  who  by  vale  and  by  crag 
Bear  onward,  unfaltering,  our  noble  old  flag,  — 
Strong  arms  of  the  Union,  heroes  living  and  dead, 
For  the  blood  of  your  valor  is  uselessly  shed  ! 
No  soldier's  green  laurel  is  promised  you  here, 
But  the  white  rag  of  "  sympathy  "  softly  shall  cheer  ! 

And  you,  ye  war-martyrs,  who  preach  from  your  graves 

How  captives  are  nursed  by  the  masters  of  slaves, 

Or,  living,  still  linger  in  shadows  of  Death,  — 

Puff  out  the  starved  muscle,  recall  the  faint  breath, 

And  shout,  till  those  cowards  rejoice  at  the  cry, 

"  By  the  hands  of  the  Union  we  fought  for  we  die ! " 

By  the  God  of  our  fathers  !  this  shame  we  must  share  ; 
But  it  grows  too  debasing  for  freemen  to  bear ; 
And  Washington,  Jackson,  will  turn  in  their  graves, 
When  the  Union  shall  rest  on  two  races  of  slaves  ; 
Or,  spurning  the  spirit  which  bound  it  of  yore, 
And  sundered,  exist  as  a  nation  no  more  ! 

New  York  Tribune. 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE.  251 


SHERIDAN'S    RIDE. 

BY   T.    BUCHANAN   HEAD. 

UP  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fres>h  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  was  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar, 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  war  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  's  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down, — 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed,  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight ; 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs  thundering  South 
The  dust,  like  the  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster ; 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 


25 1  SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed ; 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind, 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind  ; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire. 

But  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire  ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops  : 

What  was  done  —  what  to  do  —  a  glance  told  him  both  ; 

Then  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray ; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  red  nostrils'  play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say : 

"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day  ! " 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  Soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 
There,  with  the  glorious  General's  name, 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester  —  twenty  miles  away ! " 


AFTER  ALL.  253 


AFTER   ALL. 

BY   WILLIAM   WINTER. 

THE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 

Sits  pale  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  the  gentle  wind  of  twilight 

Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  pressed, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet, 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper  . 

"  The  end  no  man  can  see ; 
But  we  gave  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee." 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 
There  's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 


254  THE    YEAR   OF  JUBILEE. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 
By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone, 

And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 
Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


THE  YEAR  OF  JUBILEE.* 

SAY,  darkies,  hab  you  seen  de  massa, 

Wid  de  muffstash  on  he  face, 
Go  'long  de  road  some  time  dis  morn  in', 

Like  he  gwine  to  leabe  de  place  ? 
He  see  de  smoke  way  up  de  ribber 
Whar  de  Lincum  gun-boats  lay ; 
He  took  he  hat  and  leff  berry  sudden, 
And  I  'spose  he  's  runned  away. 
De  massa  run,  ha  !  ha  ! 

De  darky  stay,  ho  !  ho  ! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comin', 
An'  de  yar  ob  Jubilo. 

He  six  foot  one  way  and  two  foot  todder, 

An'  he  weigh  six  hundred  poun' ; 
His  coat  so  big  he  could  n't  pay  de  tailor, 

An'  it  won't  reach  half  way  roun' ; 
He  drill  so  much  dey  calls  him  cap'n, 

An'  he  git  so  mighty  tan'd, 
I  spec  he  '11  try  to  fool  dem  Yankees 
For  to  tink  he  contraband. 
De  niassa  run,  ha  !  ha ! 

De  darkey  stay,  ho  !  ho  ! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comin', 
An'  de  yar  ob  Jubilo. 

*  In  1864  the  negro  slaves  began  to  see  that  the  year  of  jubilee 
was  certainly  coming,  and  this  song,  expressive  of  their  views  upon 
the  subject,  appeared.  In  April,  1805,  a  detachment  of  negro  troops 
sang  it  as  they  marched  into  Richmond. 


ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY.  255 

De  darkies  got  so  lonesome  Hbb'n 

In  de  log  hut  on  de  lawn, 
Dey  move  dere  tings  into  massa's  parlor 

For  to  keep  it  while  he  gone. 
Dar  's  wine  and  cider  in  de  kichin, 

And  de  darkies  dey  hab  some, 
I  spec  it  will  all  be  'fiscated, 
When  de  Lincum  sojers  come. 
De  massa  run,  ha  !  ha  ! 

De  darkey  stay,  ho  !  ho  ! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  cornin', 
An'  de  yar  ob  Jubilo. 

De  oberseer,  he  makes  us  trubble, 

An'  he  dribe  us  roun'  a  spell, 
We  lock  him  up  in  de  smoke-house  cellar, 

Wid  de  key  flung  in  de  well. 
De  whip  am  lost,  de  han'-cuff  broke, 

But  de  massa  hab  his  pay ; 
He  big  an'  ole  enough  for  to  know  better 
Dan  to  went  an'  run  away. 
De  massa  run,  ha!  ha! 

De  darkey  stay,  ho  !  ho  ! 
It  mus'  be  now  de  kingdum  comiii', 
An'  de  yar  ob  Jubilo. 


ABOLITION   OF   SLAVERY  BY   CONSTITU 
TIONAL   AMENDMENT.* 

NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek, 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak ; 

Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 

The  triumph  and  exulting  song. 

*  Passed  the  House  of  Representatives,  January  3 1st,  1865,  by 
vote  of  119  to  56. 


256  ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail,  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became  ; 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame  ; 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn ; 
Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped ;  but  still  with  awe 
The  corning  of  the  sword  we  saw  ; 
We  heard  the  nearing  steps  of  doom, 
And  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come. 

We  hoped  for  peace  :  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day  ; 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain  ; 
*T  was  shorn  by  battle-axe  in  twain. 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captive  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light ; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night  ! 

The  praise,  O  Lord !  be  Thine  alone ; 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  be  done  ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last. 


BROTHER  JONATHAN  AND   TAXES.       257 


BROTHER  JONATHAN  AND  TAXES. 

I  GUESS  I  mean  to  tax  myself, 

In  every  jot  and  tittle, 
Of  all  I  eat  and  drink  and  wear, 

And  all  I  chew  and  whittle  ; 
In  flour  and  sperrits,  ale  and  wine, 

In  oils  and  in  tobackers  ; 
In  papers,  gas,  salt,  soap,  and  skins, 

And  meal  and  malt  and  crackers. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

The  leather  that  we  walk  upon,  — 

The  upper  and  the  under,  — 
The  electric  fluid  in  the  wires, 

(Guess  I  can't  catch  the  thunder ;) 
Each  passenger  that  takes  the  cars, 

Each  'bus  that  runs  on  tramrods, 
Advertisements  and  steamboats  too, 

And  guns,  locks,  stocks,  and  ramrods. 
Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

There  's  not  a  billiard-ball  shall  spin, 

But  into  Guv'ment's  pockets  ; 
No  draughts  or  pill  cure  human  ill, 

Without  the  Guv'ment  dockets ; 
All  carriages  taxed  carts  shall  be  ; 

Watches  go  tick  for  taxes  ; 
And  messages  shall  pay,  —  both  eends,  — 

Who  answers  and  who  axes. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

No  banker  shall  shinplasters  make, 

No  pedler  cheat  the  farmers, 
No  liquor-store  shall  sell  its  drams, 

No  theatres  its  drainers  ; 
17 


258  A   LITTLE  JEU  D' ESPRIT. 

No  rider  spring  round  the  circus-ring, 

No  bowling-alley  roll  up, 
But  shall  to  Guv'ment  needs  help  bring 
The  totle  of  the  whole  up. 

Yankee  Doodle,  etc. 

London  Punch. 


A  LITTLE  JEU  D'ESPRIT : 

SHOWING    HOW    AUGUST    BECAME    JULY  AND    MARCH,    AND   A 
LITTLE   MAN   GREW  TO  A   GREAT   HEIGHT. 

THE  august  name  Auguste, 

(From  the  Emperor  Augustus,) 
With  its  late  associations 

Doth  mightily  disgust  us,  — 
Doth  mightily  disgust  us. 

For  the  snobbish  individual, 

To  whom  it  don't  apply, 
Since  the  falsehoods  of  Chicago 

Should  be  surely  named  July,  — 
Should  be  surely  named  July. 

The  elections  of  November 

Will  take  out  all  his  starch ; 
Then  all  our  friends,  and  he  himself, 

Will  wish  to  make  him  March,  — 
Will  wish  to  make  him  March. 

For  his  vile  and  nasty  politics, 

Let  him  take  his  carcass  hence ; 
He  is,  indeed,  a  little  man, 

Yet  the  height  of  Impudence,  — 
Yet  the  height  of  Impudence. 

Evening  Post. 


A  II AIR-DRESSER'S  STORY.  259 


A  HAIR-DRESSER'S   STORY. 

The  story  runs,  that  to  a  certain  town 

Of  much  renown 

For  teas  aesthetic,  and  for  streets  that  wind, 
With  his  fair  wife,  a  whilom  General  carne, 

Well  known  to  fame. 
Whose  tactics  were  of  the  defensive  sort, 
Whose  masterly  retreats  and  memory  short 
Had  proved  him  fitted  for  a  sphere  confined. 

At  least  the  people  thought  him  not  designed, 

In  spite  of  his  refined 
And  gentlemanly  manners,  for  the  place 
Of  President.      They  voted  that  too  large 

For  little  George  : 

Thus  snubbed,  disgusted  he  has  left  his  home 
To  join  his  sympathizing  friends  at  Rome, 
In  papal  patriarehism  finding  his  solace. 

Nor  shall  we  care  again  to  see  his  face 

Who  in  disgrace- 
fill  forced  inaction  kept  an  army  tried, 
And  trained  to  war.      Whose  mole-like  strategy 

And  sullen  vanity, 

Whose  organizing  skill  and  nice  precision, 
Whose  imperturbable,  slow  indecision, 
Deceived  the  trust  that  in  him  most  relied. 

But  to  my  story.     In  this  city,  where 

The  very  air 

Dampens  your  soul  with  intellectual  dew, 
The  General's  friends,  with  just  appreciation, 

Did  an  "  ovation  " 

Of  costly  banquet  and  "  reception  "  offer, 
For  his  delight ;   and  frowned  down  any  scoffer 
Who  thought  at  his  campaigns  to  glance  askew. 


260  A   HAIR-DRESSER'S  STORY. 

For  this  reunion,  —  where  professors  drew 

Out  ladies  blue,  — 

A  hair-dresser  was  sent  for,  to  arrange 
The  lady's  tresses  in  the  newest  fashion, 

(Braids  a  discretion) 

Regardless  of  expense,  that  should  amaze 
The  souls  of  all  men  privileged  to  gaze 
Upon  that  head  of  complications  strange. 

And  while  his  well-trained  fingers  swiftly  range 

And  deftly  change 

From  rats  to  mice,  from  curl  to  smoothest  roll,  — 
Before  a  glass  that  in  a  corner  stood, 

In  thoughtful  mood, 
The  General  his  razor  did  prepare, 
And  with  a  cautious,  meditative  care 
His  coat  and  waistcoat  from  his  trunk  unfold. 

And  then  the  lady,  thoughtful  of  her  spouse, 

Did  him  arouse 

In  gentle  accents  :  "  General,  are  you  ready  '?  " 
(She  had  her  back  turned  to  him  that  the  light 

Might  fall  aright.) 

The  General,  waking  from  a  reverie, 
(In  Spain  he  often  won  a  victory,) 
Answered  her,  "  No,"  in  tone  composed  and  steady 

But  soon  again  :  "  Now,  General  are  you  ready  ?  " 

Said  his  good  lady, 

With  slight  impatience.      "  It  is  nearly  time 
That  we  were  off.     You  know  of  all  the  guests 

We  should  be  first ; 

And  I  am  much  afraid  you  will  be  late." 
He  plainly  saw  that  she  would  be  irate, 
Yet  answered  "  No,"  with  constancy  sublime. 

This  answer  did  not  with  her  humor  chime : 
The  clock  struck  nine. 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH.  261 

She  scarcely  her  impatience  could  control. 
At  last,  her  head  completed,  round  she  turned, 

With  eyes  that  burned, 

Upon  her  lord  :  "  Why,  are  you  not  yet  ready  ? 
Oh,  dear  !    You  know,  George,  you  are  never  ready  !  " 
Broke  in  sad  truth  from  that  Ions:  wearied  soul. 


SHERMAN'S   MARCH. 

BY   A    SOLDIER. 

THEIR  lips  are  still  as  the  lips  of  the  dead, 
The  gaze  of  their  eyes  is  straight  ahead ; 
The  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  ten  thousand  feet 
Keep  time  to  that  muffled,  monotonous  beat,  — 
Rub-a-dub-dub !  rub-a-dub-dub  ! 

Ten  thousand  more  !  and  still  they  come 
To  fight  a  battle  for  Christendom  ! 
With  cannon  and  caissons,  and  flags  unfurled, 
The  foremost  men  in  all  the  world ! 

Rub-a-dub-dub !  rub-a-dub-dub ! 
?K. <f ... 

The  foe  is  intrenched  on  the  frowning  hill,  — 
A  natural  fortress,  strengthened  by  skill ; 
But  vain  are  the  walls  to  those  who  face 
The  champions  of  the  human  race  ! 

Rub-a-dub-dub  !  rub-a-dub-dub ! 

"  By  regiment !  Forward  into  line  !  " 
Then  sabres  and  guns  and  bayonets  shine. 
Oh  ye  who  feel  your  fate  at  last 
Repeat  the  old  prayer  as  your  hearts  beat  fast 
Rub-a-dub-dub !  rub-a-dub-dub  ! 


262  THE  CRAVEN. 

Oli  ye  who  've  waited  and  prayed  so  long 
That  Right  might  have  a  fair  fight  with  Wrong, 
No  more  in  fruitless  marches  shall  plod, 
But  smite  the  foe  with  the  wrath  of  God ! 
Rub-a-dub-dub !  rub-a-dub-dub ! 

O  Death !  what  a  charge  that  carried  the  hill ! 
That  carried,  and  kept,  and  holds  it  still ! 
The  foe  is  broken  and  flying  with  fear, 
While  far  on  their  route  our  drummers  I  hear,  — 
Rub-a-dub-dub  !  rub-a-dub-dub ! 

Harper's  Weekly. 


THE   CRAVEN. 

FROM   AN   UNPUBLISHED   POEM   BY   ALFRED   ANDHISOX. 

ON  that  mighty  day  of  battle,  'mid  the  booming  and  the 

rattle, 
Shouts  of  victory  and  of  anguish,  wherewith  Malvern's 

hill  did  roar, 
Did  a  General  now  quite  fameless,  who  in  these  lines 

shall  be  nameless, 
Show  himself  as  rather  gameless, —  gameless  on  the  James's 

shore,  — 
Safely  smoking  on  a  gunboat,  while  the  tempest  raged  on 

shore, 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

The  Congressional  Committee  sat  within  the  nation's  city, 
And  each  Congressman  so  witty  did  the  General  implore  : 
"  Tell  us  if  thou  at  that  battle,  'mid  the  booming  and  the 

rattle, 
Wert  on  a  gunboat  or  in  saddle,  while  the  tempest  raged 

ashore  ?  " 


THE  HOUR   OF  NORTHERN   VICTORY.      263 

Answered  he :  "I  don't  remember,  —  might  have  been." 
What  more  ? 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

"  By  the  truth   which   is   eternal,    by   the   lies   that  are 

diurnal, 

By  our  Abraham  paternal,  General,  we  thee  implore, 
Tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil,  —  parent  of  old  Jeff. 

and  evil ; 
Give  us  no  more  of  such  drivel.      Tell  us,  wert  thou  on 

the  shore." 
"  Don't  remember,  —  might  have  been  ;  "  thus   spoke  ho 

o'er  and  o'er,  — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

"  On  that  day,  sir,  had  you  seen  a  gunboat  of  the  name 
Galena, 

In  an  anchorage,  to  screen  a  man  from  danger  on  the 
shore  ? 

Was  a  man  about  your  inches,  smoking  with  those  three 
French  Princes, 

With  a  caution  which  evinces  care  for  such  a  garde  de- 
corps  f 

Were  you  that  man  on  the  gunboat  ?  "     "  Don't  remem 
ber,  —  might  have  been.      The  bore." 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Evening  Post. 


THE  HOUR   OF  NORTHERN  VICTORY. 

BY   FANNY    KEMBLE. 

ROLL  not  a  drum,  sound  not  a  clarion  note 
Of  haughty  triumph  to  the  silent  sky  ; 

Hush'd  be  the  shout  of  joy  in  ev'ry  throat, 
And  veil'd  the  flash  of  pride  in  ev'ry  eye. 


264  THE  HOUR   OF  NORTHERN  VICTORY. 

Not  with  Te  Demrn  loud  and  high  Hosannas 
Greet  we  the  awful  victory  we  have  won  ; 

But  with  our  arms  revers'd  and  lower'd  banners 
We  stand,  —  our  work  is  done  ! 

Thy  work  is  done,  God,  terrible  and  just, 

Who  laidst  upon  our  hearts  and  hands  this  task ; 

And  kneeling,  with  our  foreheads  in  the  dust, 
We  venture  Peace  to  ask. 

Bleeding  and  writhing  underneath  our  sword, 
Prostrate  our  brethren  lie,  Thy  fallen  foe, 

Struck  down  by  Thee  through  us,  avenging  Lord,  — • 
By  Thy  dread  hand  laid  low. 

For  our  own  guilt  have  AVC  been  doomed  to  smite 
These  our  kindred,  Thy  great  laws  defying,  — 

These,  our  own  flesh  and  blood,  who  now  unite 
In  one  thing  only  with  us,  —  bravely  dying. 

Dying  how  bravely,  yet  how  bitterly ! 

Not  for  the  better  side,  but  for  the  worse,  — 
Blindly  and  madly  striving  against  Thee, 

For  the  bad  cause  where  Thou  hast  set  Thy  curse. 

At  whose  defeat  we  may  not  raise  our  voice, 
Save  in  the  deep  thanksgiving  of  our  prayers  : 

"  Lord  !  we  have  fought  the  fight !  "     But  to  rejoice 
Is  ours  no  more  than  theirs. 

Call  back  thy  dreadful  ministers  of  wrath 

Who  have  led  on  our  hosts  to  this  great  day ; 

Let  our  feet  halt  now  in  the  avenger's  path, 
And  bid  our  weapons  stay. 

Upon  our  land,  Freedom's  inheritance, 

Turn  Thou  once  more  the  splendor  of  Thy  face, 


THE  FREEDMAN'S  SONG.  265 

Where  nations  serving  Thee  to  light  advance, 
Give  us  again  our  place. 

Not  our  bewildering  past  prosperity, 

Not  all  thy  former  ill-requited  grace, 
But  this  one  boon,  —  Oh  !  grant  us  still  to  be 

The  home  of  Hope  to  the  whole  human  race. 
April  25/A,  1805.  London  Spectator. 


COTTON  AND  CORN. 

COTTON  and  Corn  were  mighty  kings,* 
Who  differed  at  times  on  certain  things, 

To  the  country's  dire  confusion  : 
Corn  was  peaceable,  mild,  and  just, 
But  Cotton  was  fond  of  saying  "  you  must "  ; 
So,  after  he  'd  boasted,  bullied,  and  cussed, 

He  got  up  a  revolution. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  bubble  is  bursted, 
And  Corn  is  the  King,  and  Cotton  is  worsted. 


THE  FREEDMAN'S  SONG. 

DE  Lord,  He  make  us  free  indeed 
In  His  own  time  an'  way  ; 

*  The  phrase  "  King  Cotton  "  was  brought  into  use  by  the  fol 
lowing  passage  in  a  speech  Senator  Hammond,  of  South  Carolina, 
made  in  the  Senate,  March  4th,  1858:  — "  No,  you  dare  not  make 
war  upon  cotton ;  no  power  upon  earth  dares  to  make  war  upon 
it.  Cotton  is  king :  until  lately  the  Bank  of  England  was  king; 
but  she  tried  to  put  her  screws,  as  usual,  the  fall  before  last,  on  the 
cotton  crop,  and  was  utterly  vanquished.  The  last  power  has  been 
conquered:  who  can  doubt,  that  has  looked  at  recent  events,  that 
cotton  is  supreme  !  " 


266  TEE  FREEDMAN'S   SONG. 

We  plant  de  rice  an'  cotton  seed, 

An'  see  de  sprout  some  day ; 
We  know  it  come,  but  not  de  why,  — 

De  Lord  know  more  dan  we  ; 
We  'spected  freedom  by-an'-by, 
An'  now  we  all  are  free. 

Praise  de  Lord  !    Praise  de  Lord  ! 
For  now  we  all  are  free. 

De  Norf  is  on  de  side  of  right, 

An'  full  of  men,  dey  say ; 
An'  dere,  when  poor  man  work,  at  night 

He  sure  to  get  his  pay  ; 
De  Lord,  He  glad  dey  are  so  good, 

An'  make  dem  bery  strong ; 
An'  when  dey  called  to  give  deir  blood 

Dey  all  come  right  along. 

Praise  de  Lord  !    Praise  de  Lord  ! 
Dey  all  come  right  along. 

Deir  blue  coats  cover  all  de  groun', 

An'  make  it  like  de  sky  ; 
An'  ebery  gray  back  loafing  romi' 

He  tink  it  time  to  fly : 
We  not  afraid ;  we  bring  de  child 

An'  stan'  beside  de  door, 
An'  oh !  we  hug  it  bery  wild, 

An'  keep  it  ebermore. 

Praise  de  Lord  !     Praise  de  Lord  ! 
We  keep  it  ebermore. 

De  mas'er  's  come  back  from  his  tramp, 

'Pears  he  is  broken  quite  ; 
He  takes  de  basket  to  de  camp 

For  rations  ebery  night ; 
Dey  fought  him  when  he  loud  and  strong, 

Dey  ieed  him  when  he  low, 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  267 

Dey  say  (ley  will  forgive  de  wrong 
And  bid  him  'pent  and  go. 

Praise  de  Lord  !    Praise  de  Lord  ! 
Dey  bid  him  'pent  and  go. 

De  rice  is  higher  far  dis  year, 

De  cotton  taller  grow  ; 
De  lowest  corn-silk  on  de  ear 

Is  higher  dan  de  hoe  ; 
De  Lord  He  lift  up  ebery  ting 

'Cept  rebel  in  his  grave ; 
De  negro  bress  de  Lord,  an'  sing 
He  is  no  longer  slave. 

Praise  de  Lord  !     Praise  de  Lord  ! 
De  negro  no  more  slave. 

Harpers'   Weekly. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

ASSASSINATED  GOOD  FRTDAY,  1835. 
BY   EDMUND    C.    STEDMAN. 

FORGIVE  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do!" 

He  said,  and  so  went  shriven  to  his  fate.  — 
Unknowing  went,  that  generous  heart  and  true. 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  slayer  lay  in  wait ; 

And  when  the  morning  opened  Heaven's  gate 
There  passed  the  whitest  soul  a  nation  knew. 

Henceforth  all  thoughts  of  pardon  are  too  late ; 
They,  in  whose  cause  that  arm  its  weapon  drew, 

Have  murdered  Mercy.     Now  alone  shall  stand 
Blind  Justice,  with  the  sword  unsheathed  she  wore. 

Hark  !  from  the  eastern  to  the  western  strand, 
The  swelling  thunder  of  the  people's  roar,  — 

What  words  they  murmur :  Fetter  not  her  hand  ! 
So  let  it  smite :  such  deeds  shall  be  no  more  ! 

April  15,  1865.  New  York  Tribune. 


268  REUNION. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

BY    WILLIAM    CULL  EN   BRYANT. 

O,  SLOW  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 

Gentle  and  merciful  and  just ! 
Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 

The  sword  of  power  —  a  nation's  trust. 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 

Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 
And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 

That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done  —  the  bond  are  free  ; 

We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 
Whose  noblest  monument  shall  be 

The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life ;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  right. 

Evening  Post. 


REUNION. 

BY   JOHN   NICIIOL. 

AN  end  at  last !      The  echoes  of  the  war  — 
The  weary  war  beyond  the  western  waves - 

Die  in  the  distance.      Freedom's  rising  star 
Beacons  above  a  hundred  thousand  graves : 

The  graves  of  heroes  who  have  won  the  fight, 
Who  in  the  storming  of  the  stubborn  town 


REUNION.  269 

Have  rung  the  marriage-peal  of  might  and  right, 
And  scaled  the  cliffs  and  cast  the  dragon  down. 

Paeans  of  armies  thrill  across  the  sea, 

Till  Europe  answers :   "  Let  the  struggle  cease,  — 
The  bloody  page  is  turned ;  the  next  may  be 

For  ways  of  pleasantness  and  paths  of  peace  ! " 

A  golden  morn  —  a  daAvn  of  better  things  — 
The  olive-branch  —  clasping  of  hands  again  — 

A  noble  lesson  read  to  conquering  kings  — 
A  sky  that  tempests  had  not  scoured  in  vain. 

This  from  America  we  hoped,  and  him 

Who  ruled  her  "  in  the  spirit  of  his  creed." 

Does  the  hope  last  when  all  our  eyes  are  dim, 
As  history  records  her  darkest  deed  ? 

The  pilot  of  his  people  through  the  strife, 

With  his  strong  purpose  turning  scorn  to  praise, 

E'en  at  the  close  of  battle  reft  of  life, 
And  fair  inheritance  of  quiet  days. 

Defeat  and  triumph  found  him  calm  and  just ; 

He  showed  how  clemency  should  temper  power ; 
And,  dying,  left  to  future  times  in  trust 

The  memory  of  his  brief  victorious  hour. 

O'ermastered  by  the  irony  of  fate, 

The  last  and  greatest  martyr  of  his  cause  ; 

Slain  like  Achilles  at  the  Scaean  gate, 

He  saw  the  end,  and  fixed  "  the  purer  laws." 

May  these  endure,  and,  as  his  work,  attest 
The  glory  of  his  honest  heart  and  hand : 

The  simplest,  and  the  bravest,  and  the  best,  — 
The  Moses  and  the  Cromwell  of  his  land. 


270  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

Too  late  the  pioneers  of  modern  spite, 
Awe-stricken  by  the  universal  gloom, 

See  his  name  lustrous  in  Death's  sable  night, 
And  offer  tardy  tribute  at  his  tomb. 

But  we  who  have  been  with  him  all  the  while, 
Who  knew  his  worth,  and  loved  him  long  ago, 

Rejoice  that  in  the  circuit  of  our  isle 

There  is  no  room  at  last  for  Lincoln's  foe. 

London  Spectatoi 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

FOULLY  ASSASSINATED,  APRIL  14,  1805. 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  LINCOLN'S  bier,  — 
You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 

Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling  hair, 
His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 

His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please : 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step,  as  though  the  way  were  plain  ; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chief's  perplexity,  or  people's  pain. 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet,  — 
Say,  scurrile-j ester,  is  there  room  for  you  1 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  2/1 

Yes,  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer, 

To  lame  my  pencil  and  confute  my  pen ; 
To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, — 

This  rail-splitter,  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learnt  to  rue, 

Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose ; 
How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more  true,  — 

How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows. 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful,  he  could  be,  — 
How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same : 

Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 
Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work  —  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and  hand  — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there  's  a  task  to  do, 

Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace  command  ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden  grow, 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  His  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 

Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 

His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting  mights,  — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil ; 

The  iron-bark,  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe ; 
The  rapid,  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil  ; 

The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's  tracks ; 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear,  — 
Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his  youth  to  train : 


272  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

Rough  culture,  but  such  trees  large  fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 

And  lived  to  do  it  :  four  long  suffering  years' 

Ill-fate,  ill-feeling,  ill-report,  lived  through, 

And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood  ; 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light  from  darkling  days, 

And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him, 

Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  prest,  — 

And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 
Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were  laid  to  rest ! 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 

AVhen  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame  ! 

Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high : 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came. 

A  deed  accurst!     Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  CAIN'S,  stands  darkly  out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 

Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven  ; 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven  ! 

London  Pundt. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  273 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

INSCRIBED   TO   THE    LONDON   PUNCH,    BY   ALICE   CARY. 

No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from  other  lands  ! 

As  in  his  life,  this  man,  in  death,  is  ours  ; 
His  own  loved  prairies  o'er  his  "  gaunt  gnarled  hands  " 

Have  fitly  drawn  their  sheet  of  summer  flowers ! 

What  need  hath  he  now  of  a  tardy  crown, 

His  name  from  mocking  jest  and  sneer  to  save  ? 

When  every  ploughman  turns  his  furrow  down 
As  soft  as  though  it  fell  upon  his  grave. 

He  was  a  man  whose  like  the  world  again 

Shall  never  see,  to  vex  with  blame  or  praise ; 

The  landmarks  that  attest  his  bright,  brief  reign, 
Are  battles,  not  the  pomps  of  gala-days ! 

The  grandest  leader  of  the  grandest  war 
That  ever  time  in  history  gave  a  place,  — 

What  were  the  tinsel  flattery  of  a  star 

To  such  a  breast !  or  what  a  ribbon's  grace  ! 

'Tis  to  th'  man,  and  th*  man's  honest  worth, 
The  nation's  loyalty  in  tears  upsprings  ; 

Through  him  the  soil  of  labor  shines  henceforth, 
High  o'er  the  silken  broideries  of  kings. 

The  mechanism  of  external  forms  — 

The  shifts  that  courtiers  put  their  bodies  through  — • 
Were  alien  ways  to  him  :  his  brawny  arms 

Had  other  work  than  posturing  to  do  ! 

Born  of  the  people,  well  he  knew  to  grasp 

The  wants  and  wishes  of  the  weak  and  small ; 

Therefore  we  hold  him  with  no  shadowy  clasp,  — 
Therefore  his  name  is  household  to  us  all. 
18 


274  IN  STATE. 

Therefore  we  love  him  with  a  love  apart 
From  any  fawning  love  of  pedigree : 

His  was  the  royal  soul  and  mind  and  heart,  — 
Not  the  poor  outward  shows  of  royalty. 

Forgive  us,  then,  O  friends,  if  we  are  slow 
To  meet  your  recognition  of  his  worth : 

We  're  jealous  of  the  very  tears  that  flow 

From  eyes  that  never  loved  a  humble  hearth. 


IN  STATE. 

BENEATH  the  vast  and  vaulted  dome 
That  copes  the  Capitol,  he  lies ; 
It  is  a  dreary,  dreary  night : 

The  stars  in  their  eternal  home 
Seem  like  the  sad  ethereal  eyes 
Of  seraphs,  filled  with  tender  light. 

The  Capitol  is  wrapt  in  mist ; 
Strangely  the  shadows  come  and  go  : 
The  dome  seems  floating  into  air, 
Upborne  by  unseen  hands,  I  wist : 
In  solemn  state  he  lies  below, 
His  pure  hands  folded  as  in  prayer. 

He  lies  in  solemn  state,  alone,  — 
Alone,  with  only  silence  there,  — 
Alone  with  lofty  lamps  that  rim 
Almost  the  very  coping-stone  ; 
Yet  not  alone,  for  all  the  air 
Is  filled  with  tender  thoughts  of  him. 

And  all  night  long  the  marble  floors 
Have  echoed  to  the  gentle  tread 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE.  275 

Of  blessed  and  immortal  feet; 
And  through  the  open  corridors 
The  mighty  and  illustrious  dead 
Have  thronged  all  night  his  face  to  greet. 

And  they  have  bent,  full-browed  with  pain, 
And  gazed  through  their  celestial  tears 
Upon  the  face  so  dear  to  them,  — 

Upon  the  man  whose  heart  was  fain 

Above  all  hearts  these  latter  years 

To  be  like  His  of  Bethlehem. 

And  so  our  heads  are  bowed  with  grief 
Because  we  loved  him,  and  because 
But  yesterday  this  great  man  stood 

Of  many  States  the  perfect  chief, 

Dispensing  justice  and  the  laws, 

And  mindful  of  the  public  good. 

Alas  !  it  is  a  dreary  night ; 

For  he  we  loved  so  much  now  lies 

Beneath  the  vast  and  vaulted  dome ; 
And  in  his  eyes  there  is  no  light,  — 
No  light  is  in  those  loving  eyes 
Which  kindliness  had  made  her  home. 

Harpers'   Wetkly. 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE. 

BY   RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARP. 

NOT  as  when  some  great  captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  country  calls, 
Beyond  the  struggling  lines 
That  push  his  dread  designs 


276  AN  HORAT1AN  ODE. 

To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 
Of  his  determined  men, 
Who  must  be  victors  then  ! 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 
The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 

Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords  !  — 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 
Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 
Do  we  to-day  deplore 
The  man  that  is  no  more  ! 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope, 
Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope,  — 
A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 
That  waits  —  what  is  to 


Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen, 
Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 
And  murdered  while  we  slept ! 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth  — 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth,  — • 
The  roof-tree  fallen,  —  all 
That  could  affright,  appall ! 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands, 
But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 
Each  laurelled  Caesar's  brow  ! 

No  Caesar  he,  whom  we  lament, 
A  man  without  a  precedent, 


AN  HORAT1AN  ODE.  277 

Sent  it  would  seem,  to  do 
His  work  —  and  perish  too  ! 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  state, 

The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 

Which,  often  done  in  vain, 

Must  yet  be  done  again  : 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war, 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy  ;  — 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life, 
(Yet,  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armed  man  !) 

Not  then  ;  —  but  when  by  measures  meet,  — 

By  victory,  and  by  defeat,  — 

By  courage,  patience,  skill, 
The  people's  fixed  "  We  will ! " 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  rebellion  dead,  — 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head  :  — 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell,  —  O  how  he  fell ! 

The  time,  —  the  place,  —  the  stealing  shape,  — 
The  coward  shot,  —  the  swift  escape,  — 

The  wife  —  the  widow's  scream,  — 

It  is  a  hideous  dream  ! 

A  dream  ?  —  what  means  this  pageant,  then  ? 
These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 

But  throno-  the  silent  street  ? 


278  AN  HOE  ATI  AN  ODE. 

The  flags  half-mast,  that  late  so  high 
Flaunted  at  each  new  victory  ? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 
But  bloody  looks  the  red  !) 

The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles, 
And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles  ? 
(No  house  too  poor  to  show 
The  nation's  badge  of  woe  !) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom,  — 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom,  — 
The  rolling  of  the  drums,  — 
The  dreadful  car  that  comes  ? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot ! 

The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot  ! 
Thy  country's  father  slain 
By  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain  ! 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed,  —  may  it  now  ! 
(God  lets  bad  instruments 
Produce  the  best  events.) 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was :  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 
Was  never  known  before  ! 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers, 
The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours,  — 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild,  — 
The  man  to  guide  the  child ! 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit !) 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE.  279 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place. 
With  such  a  homely  face, — 

Such  rustic  manners, — speech  uncouth, — 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth  !) 

Untried,  untrained  to  bear 

The  more  than  kingly  care  ! 

Ay !     And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 

The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 
Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew,  — 

The  people,  of  whom  he  was  one. 
No  gentleman  like  Washington,  — 

(Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  room, 

To  have  him  in  their  tomb !) 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands, 
WTho  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  his  lands, 

AV^lio  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do  ! 

One  of  the  people  !     Born  to  be 
Their  curious  epitome  ; 

To  share,  yet  rise  above 

Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind  (it  seemed  so  then), 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men  : 

Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor,  — • 

But  now  they  will  endure  ! 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will, 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant,  still ; 

Who,  since  his  work  was  good, 

Would  do  it,  as  he  could. 


28 J  AN   HORATIAN  ODE. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt, 
And,  lacking  prescience,  went  without : 
Often  appeared  to  halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault : 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loth, 
And  loving  both  sides,  angered  both  : 
Was  —  not  like  Justice,  blind, 
But  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

No  hero  this,  of  Roman  mould  ; 

Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old  : 

Perhaps  he  was  not  great,  — 
But  he  preserved  the  State  ! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew ! 

O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few  ! 
O  wonder  of  the  age, 
Cut  off  by  tragic  rage  ! 

Peace  !     Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark  !  —  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 
The  trumpet's  wail  afar,  — 
And  see  !  the  awful  car  ! 

Peace  !     Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom,  and  bells  toll  slow  : 
And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 
Bearing  our  woe  afar  ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 
To  honor  all  they  can 
The  dust  of  that  good  man  ! 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain  : 


A  N  HORA  TLA  N  ODE.  28 1 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave 
Attend  thee  to  the  grave  ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again,  — 
Your  late  commander  —  slain  ! 

Yes,  let  your  tears,  indignant,  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall : 

Your  country  needs  you  now 

Beside  the  forge,  the  plough  ! 

(When  Justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand,  — 
If  Mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand,  — 

Nor  would  we  have  it  so,  — 

She  must  direct  the  blow  !) 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race, 
Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place, 

Know  ye  who  cometh  ?      He 

Who  hath  declared  you  free  ! 

Bow  while  the  body  passes,  —  nay, 

Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray ! 

Weep,  weep  —  I  would  ye  might  — 
Your  poor,  black  faces  white  ! 

And,  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 

Of  blue,  and  white,  and  red, 

To  strew  before  the  dead  ! 

So,  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  fallen  to  his  last  repose  : 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home  : 


282  SOUTH    CAROLINA.— 


The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best  : 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 
And  there  his  bones  be  laid  ! 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 
And  strangers  far  and  near, 
For  many  and  many  a  year  ! 

For  many  a  year,  and  many  an  age, 
While  history  on  her  ample  page 
The  virtues  shall  enroll 
Of  that  paternal  soul  ! 


SOUTH   CAROLINA.  — 18G5. 

BEHOLD  her  now,  with  restless,  flashing  eyes, 
Crouching,  a  thing  forlorn,  beside  the  way ! 
Behold  her  ruined  altars  heaped  to-day 

With  ashes  of  her  costly  sacrifice  ! 

How  changed  the  once  proud  State  that  led  the  strife, 
And  flung  the  war-cry  first  throughout  the  land  ! 
See  helpless  now  the  parricidal  hand 

Which  aimed  the  first  blow  at  the  nation's  life  ! 

The  grass  is  growing  in  the  city's  street, 

Where  stand  the  shattered  spires,  the  broken  walls ; 

And  through  the  solemn  noonday  silence  falls 
The  sentry's  footstep  as  he  treads  his  beat. 

Behold  once  more  the  old  flag  proudly  wave 

Above  the  ruined  fortress  by  the  sea ! 

No  longer  shall  that  glorious  banner  be 
The  ensi<rn  of  a  land  where  dwells  the  slave. 


10  TRIUMPHE!  283 

Hark  !  on  the  air  what  swelling  anthems  rise  : 
A  ransomed  people,  by  the  sword  set  free, 
Are  chanting  now  a  song  of  liberty  ; 

Hear  how  their  voices  echo  to  the  skies  ! 

Oh  righteous  retribution,  great  and  just! 
Behold  the  palm-tree  fallen  to  the  earth, 
AVhere  Freedom,  rising  from  a  second  birth, 

No  more  shall  trail  her  garments  in  the  dust ! 

Harpers'   Weekly. 


IO   TRIUMPHE! 

BY   LIEUTENANT   RICHARD    REALF. 

NOT  ever,  in  all  human  time, 

Did  any  man  or  nation 
Plant  foot  upon  the  peaks  sublime 

Of  Mount  Transfiguration, 
But  first  in  long  preceding  hours 

Of  dread  and  solemn  being, 
Clashed  battle  'gainst  Satanic  powers, 

Alone  with  the  All-seeing. 

God's  glory  lights  no  mortal  brows 

Which  sorrow  hath  not  wasted  ; 
No  wine  hath  He  for  lips  of  those 

His  lees  who  never  tasted. 
Nor  ever,  till  in  bloodiest  stress 

The  heart  is  well  approved, 
Does  the  All-brooding  Tenderness 

Cry,  "  This  is  my  beloved  !  " 

O  land,  through  years  of  shrouded  nights 

In  triple  blackness  groping, 
Toward  the  far  prophetic  lights 

That  beacon  the  world's  hoping,  — 


284  10  TRIUMPH E! 

Behold  !  no  tittle  slialt  tliou  miss 
Of  that  transforming  given 

To  all  who,  dragged  through  hell's  abyss, 
Hold  fast  their  grip  on  heaven. 

The  Lord  God's  purpose  throbs  along 

Our  stormy  turbulences ; 
He  keeps  the  sap  of  nations  strong 

By  hidden  recompenses. 
The  Lord  God  sows  his  righteous  grain 

In  battle-blasted  furrows, 
And  draws  from  present  days  of  pain 

Large  peace  for  calm  to-morrows. 

From  strokes  of  unseen  cimitars 

A  million  hearts  are  bleeding ; 
A  cry  runs  tingling  to  the  stars 

Of  babes'  and  widows'  pleading  : 
While  at  hell's  altars  sacrificed,  — 

God's  martyred  son  forever,  — 
Lies  the  clear  life  that  crystallized 

Our  kingliest  endeavor. 

And  yet  beneath  our  brimming  tears 

Lies  nobler  cause  for  singing 
Than  ever  in  the  shining  years, 

When  all  our  vales  were  ringing 
With  happy  sounds  of  mellow  peace ; 

And  all  our  cities  thundered 
With  lusty  echoes,  and  our  seas 

By  freighted  keels  were  sundered. 

For  lo !  the  branding  flails  that  drave 
Our  husks  of  foul  self  from  us 

Show  all  the  watching  heavens  we  have 
Immortal  grain  of  promise. 


10   TRIUMPHE!  285 

And  lo !  the  dreadful  blasts  that  blew 

In  gusts  of  fire  amid  us 
Have  scorched  and  winnowed  from  the  true 

The  falseness  which  undid  us. 

No  floundering  more,  for  mind  or  heart, 

Among  the  lower  levels  ; 
No  welcome  more  for  moods  that  sort 

With  satyrs  and  with  devils ; 
But  over  all  our  fruitful  slopes, 

On  all  our  plains  of  beauty, 
Fair  temples  for  fair  human  hopes, 

And  altar-thrones  for  duty. 

Wherefore,  O  ransomed  people,  shout ! 

O  banners,  wave  in  glory ! 
O  bugles,  blow  the  triumph  out ! 

O  drums,  strike  up  the  story ! 
Clang,  broken  fetters,  idle  swords  ! 

Clap  hands,  O  States,  together ! 
And  let  all  praises  be  the  Lord's, 

Our  Saviour  and  our  Father. 

Harper?   Wttkly. 


APPENDIX. 


REBEL  POETRY. 


APPENDIX. 


FAREWELL  TO  BROTHER  JONATHAN.* 

BY    CAROLINE. 

FAREWELL  !  we  must  part ;  we  have  turned  from  the  land 
Of  our  cold-hearted  brother,  with  tyrannous  hand, 
Who  assumed  all  our  rights  as  a  favor  to  grant, 
And  whose  smile  ever  covered  the  sting  of  a  taunt ; 

Who  breathed  on  the  fame  he  was  bound  to  defend,  — 
Still  the  craftiest  foe,  'neath  the  guise  of  a  friend ; 
Who  believed  that  our  bosoms  would  bleed  at  a  touch, 
Yet  could  never  believe  he  could  goad  them  too  much ; 

Whose  conscience  affects  to  be  seared  with  our  sin, 
Yet  is  plastic  to  take  all  its  benefits  in  ; 
The  mote  in  our  eye  so  enormous  has  grown, 
That  he  never  perceives  there  's  a  beam  in  his  own. 

O  Jonathan,  Jonathan  !  vassal  of  pelf, 
Self-righteous,  self-glorious,  —  yes,  every  inch  self.  — • 
Your  loyalty  now  is  all  bluster  and  boast, 
But  was  dumb  when  the  foemen  invaded  our  coast. 

lu  vain  did  your  country  appeal  to  you  then, 
You  coldly  refused  her  your  money  and  men  ; 

*  A  reply  to  "  Brother  Jonathan's  Farewell  to  Sister  Caroline,' 
p.  1. 

19 


290     FAREWELL   TO  BROTHER  JONATHAN. 

Your  trade  interrupted,  you  slunk  from  her  wars, 

And  preferred  British  gold  to  the  Stripes  and  the  Stars  ! 

Then  our  generous  blood  was  as  water  poured  forth, 
And  the  sons  of  the  South  were  the  shields  of  the  North  ; 
Nor  our  patriot  ardor  one  moment  gave  o'er, 
Till  the  foe  you  had  fed  we  had  driven  from  the  shore ! 

Long  years  we  have  suffered  opprobrium  and  wrong, 
But  we  clung  to  your  side  with  affection  so  strong, 
That  at  last,  in  mere  wanton  aggression,  you  broke 
All  the  ties  of  our  hearts  with  one  murderous  stroke. 

We  are  tired  of  contest  for  what  is  our  own, 
We  are  sick  of  a  strife  that  could  never  be  done ; 
Thus  our  love  has  died  out,  and  its  altars  are  dark, 
Not  Prometheus's  self  could  rekindle  the  spark. 

O  Jonathan,  Jonathan  !  deadly  the  sin 
Of  your  tigerish  thirst  for  the  blood  of  your  kin  ; 
And  shameful  the  spirit  that  gloats  over  wives 
And  maidens  despoiled  of  their  honor  and  lives  ! 

Your  palaces  rise  from  the  fruits  of  our  toil, 
Your  millions  are  fed  from  the  wealth  of  our  soil ; 
The  balm,  of  our  air  brings  the  health  to  your  cheek, 
And  our  hearts  are  aglow  with  the  welcome  we  speak. 

O  brother !  beware  how  you  seek  us  again, 
Lest  you  brand  on  your  forehead  the  signet  of  Cain ; 
That  blood  and  that  crime  on  your  conscience  must  sit  : 
We  may  fall  —  we  may  perish  —  but  never  submit ! 

The  pathway  that  leads  to  the  Pharisee's  door 
We  remember,  indeed,  but  we  tread  it  no  more ; 
Preferring  to  turn,  with  the  Publican's  faith, 
To  the  path  through  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death  ! 


"  CALL  ALL !    CALL  ALL !  " 
"CALL  ALL!    CALL  ALL!" 

BY   "  GEORGIA." 

WHOOP  !  the  Doodles  have  broken  loose, 
Roaring  round  like  the  very  deuce 
Lice  of  Egypt,  a  hungry  pack,  — 
After  'em  boys,  and  drive  'em  back,  — 

Bull-dog,  terrier,  cur,  and  fice, 
Back  to  the  beggarly  land  of  ice ; 
Worry  'em,  bite  'em,  scratch  and  tear 
Everybody  and  everywhere. 

Old  Kentucky  is  caved  from  under, 
Tennessee  is  split  asunder, 
Alabama  awaits  attack, 
And  Georgia  bristles  up  her  back. 

Old  John  Brown  is  dead  and  gone  ! 
Still  his  spirit  is  marching  on,  — 
Lantern-jawed,  and  legs,  my  boys, 
Long  as  an  ape's  from  Illinois ! 

Want  a  weapon  ?      Gather  a  brick, 
Club  or  cudgel,  or  stone  or  stick  ; 
Anything  with  a  blade  or  butt,  — • 
Anything  that  can  cleave  or  cut. 

Anything  heavy,  or  hard,  or  keen  ! 
Any  sort  of  slaying  machine  ! 
Anything  with  a  willing  mind, 
And  the  steady  arm  of  a  man  behind. 

Want  a  weapon  ?     Why,  capture  one  ! 
Every  Doodle  has  got  a  gun, 
Belt,  and  bayonet,  bright  and  new; 
Kill  a  Doodle,  and  capture  two  ! 


29I 


2Q2  MARYLAND. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  son  and  sire ! 
All,  call  all !  to  the  feast  of  fire  ! 
Mother  and  maiden,  and  child  and  slave, 
A  common  triumph  or  a  single  grave. 

Rocldiiyham  Register. 


MARYLAND.* 

BY   JAMES   K.    RANDALL. 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  wand'ring  son's  appeal, 

Maryland  ! 
My  mother  State  !  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland  ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 
Maryland  ! 

*  No  song  was  such  a  favorite  as  this  among  Rebels  at  the  South 
and  "  Copperheads  "  at  the  North.  Officers  have  told  me  that  they 
have  heard  it  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night  sung  in  undertones 
but  with  fierce  enthusiasm  in  Baltimore,  by  people  professing 
•'  Union  sentiments,"  and  who  supposed  that  their  secret  and  pre 
tended  social  gatherings  were  unobserved. 


MARYLAND.  293 

Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust ; 
Remember  HoAvard's  warlike  thrust; 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Come  !  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland  ! 
Come  !  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Come  !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  ibr  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come  !  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  give  a  new  Key  to  thy  song,* 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother  !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland  ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain  : 
"  Sic  semper"  't  is  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland  ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

*  "  The  Star  Spangled  Banner"  was  written  during  the  war  of 
1812  by  Francis  Key  of  Maryland. 


294  TIIE  DESPOTS  SONG. 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland  ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland  ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek,  — - 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  ! 
Thou  will  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland  ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb  : 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes  —  she  burns  !  she  '11  come  !  she  '11  come  ! 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 
FOI.NTE  COUPEE,  April  26,  1861. 


THE  DESPOT'S  SONG. 

BY   "OLE   SECESH." 

WITH  a  beard  that  was  filthy  and  red, 
His  mouth  with  tobacco  bespread, 
Abe  Lincoln  sat  in  the  gay  White  House, 
A-wishiri2:  that  he  was  dead  : 


THE  DESPOTS  SONG.  295 

Swear!  swear!  swear! 
Till  his  tongue  was  blistered  o'er ; 
Then,  in  a  voice  not  very  strong, 
lie  slowly  whined  the  Despot's  Song  :  — 

Lie  !  lie  !  lie  ! 
I  've  lied  like  the  very  deuce  ! 

Lie  !  lie  !  lie  ! 

As  long  as  lies  were  of  use ; 
But  now  that  lies  no  longer  pay, 

I  know  not  where  to  turn ; 
For  when  I  the  truth  would  say, 
My  tongue  with  lies  will  burn  ! 

Drink  !  drink  !  drink  ! 
Till  my  head  feels  very  queer ! 

Drink!  drink!  drink! 
Till  I  get  rid  of  all  fear ! 
Brandy  and  whiskey  and  gin, 

Sherry  and  champagne  and  pop ; 
I  tipple,  I  guzzle,  I  suck  'em  all  in, 
Till  down  dead-drunk  I  drop. 

Think!  think!  think! 
Till  my  head  is  very  sore ! 

Think!  think!  think! 
Till  I  could  n't  think  any  more  ! 
And  it 's  oh  !  to  be  splitting  of  rails, 

Back  in  my  Illinois  hut ; 
For  now  that  everything  fails, 
I  would  of  my  office  be  "  shut !  " 

Jeff!  Jeff!  Jeff! 
To  you  as  a  suppliant  I  kneel ! 

"  Jeff!  Jeff!  Jeff! 
If  you  could  my  horrors  feel, 


296  REBELS. 


You  'd  submit  at  discretion, 
And  kindly  give  in 

To  all  my  oppression, 
My  weakness  and  sin  ! 


REBELS. 

[  '  General  Beauregard,  now  in  command  of  the  Rebel  forces  in 
Charleston,  has  much  fame  as  a  tactician."  — Harpers'   Weekly. ~\ 

YES,  call  them  Rebels !  't  is  the  name 

Their  patriot  fathers  bore  ; 
And  by  such  deeds  they  '11  hallow  it, 

As  they  have  done  before. 
At  Lexington  and  Baltimore 

Was  poured  the  holy  chrism, 
For  freedom  marks  her  sons  with  blood, 

In  sign  of  their  baptfsm. 

Rebels,  in  proud  and  bold  protest, 

Against  a  power  unreal,  — 
A  unity  which  every  quest 

Proves  false  as  't  is  ideal. 
A  brotherhood,  whose  ties  are  chains, 

Which  crushes  what  it  holds, 
Like  the  old  marble  Laocoon, 

Beneath  its  serpent  folds. 

Rebels  against  the  malice  vast,  — 

Malice  that  naught  disarms,  — 
Which  fills  the  quiet  of  their  homes 

With  vague  and  dread  alarms. 
Against  the  invader's  daring  feet, 

Against  the  tide  of  wrong, 
Which  has  been  borne,  —  in  silence  borne,  — 

But  borne  perchance  too  long. 


FLIGHT   OF  DOODLES.  297 

They  would  be  cowards,  did  they  crouch 

Beneath  the  lifted  hand, 
Whose  very  wave,  ye  seem  to  think, 

Will  chill  them  where  they  stand. 
Yes,  call  them  Rebels  !  't  is  a  name 

Which  speaks  of  other  days, 
Of  gallant  deeds  and  gallant  men, 

And  wins  them  to  their  ways. 

Fair  was  the  edifice  they  raised, 

Uplifting  to  the  skies ; 
A  mighty  Samson  'neath  its  dome 

In  grand  quiescence  lies. 
Dare  not  to  touch  his  noble  limb, 

With  thong  or  chain  to  bind, 
Lest  ruin  crush  both  you  and  him,  — 

This  Samson  is  not  blind ! 


FLIGHT  OF  DOODLES. 

I  COME  from  old  Manassas,  with  a  pocket  full  of  fun ; 
I  killed  forty  Yankees  with  a  single-barrelled  gun  : 
It  don't  make  a  niff-a-stifference  to  neither  you  nor  I, 
Big  Yankee,  Little  Yankee,  all  run  or  die. 

I  saw  all  the  Yankees  at  Bull  Run ; 
They  fought  like  the  devil  when  the  battle  first  begun  : 
But  it  don't  make  a  nifl-a-stifference  to  neither  you  nor  I, 
They  took  to  their  heels,  boys,  and  you  ought  to  see  'em  fly. 

I  saw  old  Fuss-and-Feathers  Scott,  twenty  miles  away ; 
His  horses  stuck  up  their  ears,  and  you  ought  to  hear  'em 

neigh : 

But  it  don't  make  a  niff-a-stifference  to  neither  you  nor  I, 
Old  Scott  fled  like  the  devil,  boys ;  root,  hog,  or  die. 


298  FLIGHT  OF  DOODLES. 

I  then  saw  a  "  Tiger,"  from  the  old  Crescent  City ; 

He  cut  down  the  Yankees  without  any  pity : 

Oh !    it   don't   make    a   diff-a-bitterence    to   neither    you 

nor  I, 
We  whipped  the  Yankee  boys,  and  made  the  boobies  cry. 

I  saw  South  Carolina,  the  first  in  the  cause, 

Shake  the  dirty  Yankees  till  she  broke  all  their  jaws : 

Oh  !    it  don't   make    a    niff-a-stifference    to    neither   you 

nor  I, 
South  Carolina  give  'em ,  boys ;  root,  hog,  or  die. 

I  saw  old  Virginia,  standing  firm  and  true  ; 

She  fought  mighty  hard  to  whip  the  dirty  crew  : 

Oh !    it  don't    make  a   niff-a-stifference    to   neither    you 

nor  I, 
Old  Virginia 's  blood   and   thunder,   boys ;    root,  hog,  or 

die. 

I  saw  old  Georgia,  the  next  in  the  van ; 

She  cut  down  the  Yankees  almost  to  a  man : 

Oh  !    it   don't  make   a    niff-a-stifference   to   neither    you 

nor  I, 
Georgia  's  sum  in  a  fight,  boys ;  root,  hog,  or  die. 

I  saw  Alabama  in  the  midst  of  the  storm ; 

She  stood  like  a  giant  in  the  contest  so  warm  : 

Oh !    it  don't  make  a   niff-a-stifference    to    neither    you 

nor  I, 
Alabama  fought  the  Yankees,  boys,  till  the  last  one  did 

fly. 

I  saw  Texas  go  in  with  a  smile, 

But,  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  she  made  the  Yankees  bile  : 

Oh !    it    don't  make   a   niff-a-stifference    to    neither    you 

nor  I, 
Texas  is  the  devil,  boys ;  root,  hog,  or  die. 


ANOTHER    YANKEE  DOODLE.  299 

I  saw  North  Carolina  in  the  deepest  of  the  battle ; 

She  knocked   down  the  Yankees  and  made  their  bones 

rattle : 
Oh !    it   don't   make   a  niff-a-stifference    to    neither    you 

nor  I, 
North  Carolina 's  got  the  grit,  boys ;  root,  hog,  or  die. 

Old  Florida  came  in  with  a  terrible  shout ; 

She  frightened  all  the  Yankees  till  their  eyes  stuck  out : 

Oh  !    it  don't  make   a   niff-a-stiflerence    to    neither    you 

nor  I, 
Florida  's  death  on  Yankees ;  root,  hog,  or  die. 


ANOTHER  YANKEE  DOODLE. 

YANKEE  Doodle  had  a  mind 

To  whip  the  Southern  traitors, 
Because  they  did  n't  choose  to  live 
On  codfish  and  potatoes. 

Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy  ; 
And  so,  to  keep  his  courage  up, 
He  took  a  drink  of  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle  said  he  found 

By  all  the  census  figures, 
That  he  could  starve  the  Rebels  out 
If  he  could  steal  their  niggers. 
Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy ; 
And  then  he  took  another  drink 
Of  gunpowder  and  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle  made  a  speech ; 
'T  was  very  full  of  feeling : 


300  ANOTHER   YANKEE   DOODLE. 

"  I  fear,"  says  he,  "  I  cannot  fight, 
But  I  am  good  at  stealing." 

Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy ; 
Hurrah  for  Lincoln  !  he  's  the  boy 
To  take  a  drop  of  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle  drew  his  sword, 
And  practised  all  the  passes : 
Come,  boys,  we'll  take  another  drink 
When  we  get  to  Manassas. 

Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy ; 
They  never  reached  Manassas  plain, 
And  never  got  the  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle  soon  found  out 

That  Bull  Run  was  no  trifle  ; 
For  if  the  North  knew  how  to  steal, 
The  South  knew  how  to  rifle. 

Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy  ; 
'T  is  very  clear  I  took  too  much 
Of  that  infernal  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle  wheeled  about, 

And  scampered  off  at  full  run ; 
And  such  a  race  was  never  seen 
As  that  he  made  at  Bull  Run. 
Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy  ; 
I  have  n't  time  to  stop  just  now 
To  take  a  drop  of  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle,  oh,  for  shame  ! 

You  're  always  intermeddling  ; 
Let  guns  alone,  they're  dangerous  things, — 

You  'd  better  stick  to  peddling. 


JUSTICE  IS  OUR  PANOPLY.  301 

Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-cloo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy  ; 
When  next  I  go  to  Bully  Run 

I  '11  throw  away  the  brandy. 

Yankee  Doodle,  you  had  ought 

To  be  a  little  smarter ; 
Instead  of  catching  woolly  heads, 
I  vow  you  've  caught  a  tartar. 

Yankee  Doodle,  doodle-doo, 

Yankee  Doodle  dandy  ; 
Go  to  hum,  you  've  had  enough 
Of  Rebels  and  of  brandy. 


JUSTICE  IS  OUR  PANOPLY. 


[Copy  of  verses  found  in  a  pocket-book  picked  up  by  a  private 
of  the  Fifth  Regiment  Zouaves,  U.  S.  A.  There  was  no  date  at 
tached  to  them.] 

WE  'RE  free  from  Yankee  despots, 

We  've  left,  the  foul  mudsills  ; 
Declared  fore'er  our  freedom,  — 

We  '11  keep  it,  spite  of  ills. 

Bring  forth  your  scum  and  rowdies, 

Thieves,  vagabonds,  and  all ; 
March  down  your  Seventh  regiment, 

Battalions  great  and  small. 

We  '11  meet  you  in  Virginia,  — 

A  Southern  battle-field,— 
Where  Southern  men  will  never 

To  Yankee  foemen  yield. 


302  THE  STARS  AND  BARS. 

Equip  your  Lincoln  cavalry, 
Your  NEGRO  %/^-brigade, 

Your  hodmen,  boot-blacks,  tinkers, 
And  scum  of  every  grade. 

Pretended  love  for  negroes 
Incites  you  to  the  strife  ; 

Well,  come  each  Yankee  white  man 
And  take  a  negro  wife. 

You  VI  make  fit  black  companions,  — 
Black  heart  joined  to  black  skin  ; 

Such  unions  would  be  glorious,  — 
They  'd  make  the  devil  grin. 

Our  freedom  is  our  panoply  : 

Come  on,  you  base  black-guards, 

We  '11  snuff  you  like  wax-candles, 
Led  by  our  Beauregards. 

P.  G.  T.  B.  is  not  alone,  — 
Men  like  him  with  him  fight ; 

God's  providence  is  o'er  us, 
He  will  protect  the  right. 


THE  STARS  AND  BARS. 

BY   A.   J.    REQUIER. 

FLING  wide  the  dauntless  banner 
To  every  Southern  breeze, 

Baptized  in  flame  with  Sumter's  name, 

A  patriot  and  a  hero's  fame,  — 
From  Moultrie  to  the  seas ! 

That  it  may  cleave  the  morning  sun, 
And,  streaming,  sweep  the  night, 


THE  STARS  AND  BARS.  303 

The  emblem  of  a  battle  won 
With  Yankee  ships  in  sight. 

Come,  hucksters,  from  your  markets ; 

Come,  bigots,  from  your  caves  ; 
Come,  venal  spies,  with  brazen  lies 
Bewildering  your  deluded  eyes, 

That  we  may  dig  your  graves ; 
Come,  creatures  of  a  sordid  clown 

And  drivelling  traitor's  breath, 
A  single  blast  shall  blow  you  down 

Upon  the  fields  of  Death. 

The  very  flag  you  carry 

Caught  its  reflected  grace, 
In  fierce  alarms,  from  Southern  arms, 
When  foemen  threatened  all  your  farms, 

And  never  saw  your  face  ; 
Ho  !  braggarts  of  New-England's  shore, 

Back  to  your  hills,  and  delve 
The  soil  whose  craven  sons  forswore 

The  flag  in  eighteen-twelve  ! 

We  wreathed  around  the  roses 

It  wears  before  the  world, 
And  made  it  bright  with  storied  light, 
In  every  scene  of  bloody  fight 

Where  it  has  been  unfurled ; 
And  think  ye  now  the  dastard  hands 

That  never  yet  could  hold 
Its  staff",  shall  wave  it  o'er  our  lands, 

To  glut  the  greed  of  gold  ? 

No  !  by  the  truth  of  Heaven 

And  its  eternal  Sun, 
By  every  sire  whose  altar-fire 
Burns  on  to  beckon  and  inspire, 


304  THE  HUSH  BATTALION. 

It  never  shall  be  done  ; 
Before  that  day  the  kites  shall  wheel 

Hail-thick  on  Northern  heights, 
And  there  our  bared  aggressive  steel 

Shall  countersign  our  rights  ! 

Then,  spread  the  flaming  banner 

O'er  mountain,  lake,  and  plain  ; 
Before  its  bars  degraded  Mars 
Has  kissed  the  dust  with  all  his  stare, 

And  will  be  struck  again ; 
For,  could  its  triumph  now  be  stayed 

By  Hell's  prevailing  gates, 
A  sceptred  Union  would  be  made 

The  grave  of  sovereign  States. 


THE  IRISH  BATTALION.* 

WHEN  Old  Virginia  took  the  field, 

And  wanted  men  to  rally  on,  — 
To  be  at  once  her  sword  and  shield,  — 

She  formed  her  First  Battalion. 

Although  her  sons  were  Volunteers, 

And  brave  as  ever  bore  a  brand, 
The  good  old  lady  had  her  fears 

That  they  might  prove  but  weak  of  hand. 

*  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  while  Rebel  organs  made  great 
and  constant  boast  of  that  poor  inheritance,  Cavalier  and  Jacobite 
blood,  and  reviled  the  Union  armies  on  account  of  the  number  of 
Irishmen  in  their  ranks,  the  proportion  of  which  was  in  reality  very 
small,  there  was  yet  occasion  for  such  verses  as  these,  and  the 
"  Song  of  the  Irish  Brigade,"  which  follows.  It  seems,  after  all 
rather  a  sorry  confession  that  u  Old  Virginia"  took  three  hundred 
Irishmen  to  form  her  First  Battalion. 


THE  IRISH  BATTALION.  305 

She  therefore  wisely  cast  about 

For  men  of  mettle  and  of  mould, 
With  nerve  of  steel  and  muscle  stout, 

Like  those  that  lived  in  days  of  old. 

She  wanted  men  of  pluck  and  might, 

Of  fiery  heart  and  horny  hand, 
To  wield  a  pick  as  well  as  fight, 

Or  build  a  breastwork  out  of  sand. 

Or  should  she  march  to  meet  the  foe 
That  threatened  on  her  western  border, 

She  wanted  Avilling  men  to  go, 

When  told,  to  put  her  roads  in  order. 

Or  should  the  Volunteers  retreat, 

With  baggage  that  might  make  them  tarry, 
'T  would  blunt  the  edge  of  their  defeat 

To  bear  a  hand  and  help  them  carry. 

Or  should  some  die  of  fell  disease,  — 
The  surgeons  having  failed  to  save,  — 

Sure  men  who  work  with  so  much  ease, 
Would  volunteer  to  dig  a  grave  ! 

For  these,  and  reasons  quite  as  sound, 

When  Old  Virginia  went  to  war, 
She  circumspectly  viewed  the  ground 

And  plumped  the  middle  man  from  taw  ! 

In  other  words,  to  change  the  figure, 
When  she  stood  up  and  took  her  rifle, 

And  put  her  finger  on  the  trigger, 
She  meant  to  work,  and  not  to  trifle. 

And  standing  thus,  yet  wanting  then 
Some  regulars  to  rally  on, 

20 


306          BOMBARDMENT  OF  V1CKSBURG. 

She  took  three  hundred  Irishmen 
And  formed  her  First  Battalion. 

And  when  the  storm  of  battle  sweeps, 
Where  fiercest  foeinen  sally  on, 

There,  hard  at  work,  or  piled  in  heaps, 
She  '11  find  her  bold  Battalion. 


BOMBARDMENT  OF  VICKSBURG. 

DEDICATED    WITH     RESPECT    AND    ADMIRATION    TO    MAJOR- 
GENE  UAL    EARL    VAN    DOKN. 

FOR  sixty  days  and  upwards 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not ! 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  ramparts  of  the  dead  !  " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim ; 
And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian's  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  of  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 
There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 

While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 
'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts : 


BOMBARDMENT  OF   V1CKSBURG.         30? 

But,  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us ; 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gambolled,  — 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed  ! 
Then  turning  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice  mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought, 

That  the  good  God  watched  above.* 

,  Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  above  us  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse ; 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

These  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle-tide ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode  with  the  step  of  hope 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 
COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,  August  6,  1862. 

*  It  has  been  stated  by  one  professing  to  have  witnessed  the  fact, 
that  some  weeks  after  the  beginning  of  this  terrific  bombardment, 
not  only  were  ladies  seen  coolly  walking  the  streets,  but  that  iu 
some  parts  of  the  town  children  were  observed  at  play,  only  inter 
rupting  their  sports  to  gaze  and  listen  at  the  bursting  shells. 


308  A   SOUTHERN  SCENE. 


A   SOUTHERN   SCENE. 

"  O  MAMMY  !  have  you  heard  the  news  ? 

Thus  spake  a  Southern  child, 
As  in  the  nurse's  aged  face 

She  upward  glanced  and  smiled. 

"  What  news  you  mean,  my  little  one  ? 

It  must  be  mighty  fine 
To  make  my  darling's  face  so  red, 

Her  sunny  blue  eyes  shine." 

"  Why,  Abram  Lincoln,  don't  you  know, 

The  Yankee  President, 
Whose  ugly  picture  once  we  saw, 

When  up  to  town  we  went,  — 

"  Well,  he  is  going  to  free  you  all, 
And  make  you  rich  and  grand, 

And  you  '11  be  dressed  in  silk  and  gold, 
Like  the  proudest  in  the  land. 

"  A  gilded  coach  shall  carry  you 

Where'er  you  wish  to  ride  ; 
And,  mammy,  all  your  work  shall  be 

Forever  laid  aside." 

The  eager  speaker  paused  for  breath, 
And  then  the  old  nurse  said, 

While  closer  to  her  swarthy  cheek 
She  pressed  the  golden  head : 

"  My  little  missus,  stop  and  res',  — 

You'  talking  mighty  fas' ; 
Jes'  look  up  dere,  and  tell  me  what 

You  see  in  yonder  glass  ? 


A   SOUTHERN  SCENE.  309 

"  You  sees  old  mammy's  wrinkly  face, 

As  black  as  any  coal, 
And  underneath  her  handkerchief 

Whole  heaps  of  knotty  wool. 

"  My  darlin's  face  is  red  and  white, 

Her  skin  is  sofF  and  fine, 
And  on  her  pretty  little  head 

De  yallar  ringlets  shine. 

"  My  chile,  who  made  dis  difference 

'Twixt  mammy  and  'twixt  you  ? 
You  reads  the  dear  Lord's  blessed  book, 

And  you  can  tell  me  true. 

"  De  dear  Lord  said  it  must  be  so  ; 

And,  honey,  I  for  one, 
Wid  tankful  heart  will  always  say,  — 

His  holy  will  be  done. 

"  I  tanks  mas'  Linkum  all  de  same, 

But  when  I  wants  for  free, 
I  '11  ask  de  Lord  of  glory, 

Not  poor  buckra  man  like  he. 

"  And  as  for  gilded  carriages, 

Dey  's  notin'  't  all  to  see ; 
My  massa's  coach,  what  carries  him, 

Is  good  enough  for  me. 

"  And,  honey,  when  your  mammy  wants 

To  change  her  homespun  dress, 
She  '11  pray  like  dear  old  missus, 

To  be  clothed  with  righteousness. 

"  My  work  's  been  done  dis  many  a  day, 
And  now  I  takes  my  ease, 


310  BEYOND   THE  POTOMAC. 

A  waitin'  for  the  Master's  call, 
Jes'  when  the  Master  please. 

"  And  when  at  las'  de  time  's  done  come, 
And  poor  old  mammy  dies, 

Your  own  dear  mother's  soff  white  hand 
Shall  close  dese  tired  old  eyes. 

"  De  dear  Lord  Jesus  soon  will  call 
Old  mammy  home  to  Him, 

And  He  can  wash  my  guilty  soul 
From  ebery  spot  of  sin. 

"  And  at  His  feet  I  shall  lie  down, 
Who  died  and  rose  for  me ; 

And  den,  and  not  till  den,  my  chile, 
Your  mammy  will  be  free. 

"  Come,  little  missus,  say  your  prayers ; 

Let  old  mas'  Linkum  'lone, 
The  debil  knows  who  b'longs  to  him, 

And  he  '11  take  care  of  his  own." 


BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC. 

BY   PAUL   H.    HAYNE.* 

THEY  slept  on  the  fields  which  their  valor  had  won  ! 
But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained  to  be  done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 


*  This  piece  was  originally  published  in  the  Richmond  Whiy  al 
the  time  of  "  Stonewall  "  Jackson's  last  raid  into  Maryland. 


BEYOND    THE  POTOMAC.  311 

They  rose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life  from  his  light,  — 
Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight,  — 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy  of  their  might, 
Marching  swift  for  the  River. 

On!  on!  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hills, — 
On !  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills,  — 
And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant  and  thrills 
At  the  thought  of  the  River. 

On  !  the  sheen  of  their  swords  !  the  fierce  gleam  of  their 

eyes 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  the  path  to  the  River. 

But  their  banners,  shot-scarred,  and   all  darkened    with 

gore, 

On  a  strong  wind  of  morning  streamed  wildly  before, 
Like  the  wings  of  Death-angels  swept  fast  to  the  shore,  — 
The  green  shore  of  the  River. 

As   they   march,  —  from    the    hill-side,    the    hamlet,    tho 

stream,  — 

Gaunt  throngs  whom  the  Foeman  had  manacled,  teem, 
Like  men  just  roused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  pass  o'er  the  River. 

They  behold  the  broad  banners,  blood-darkened,  yet  fair 
And  a  moment  dissolves  the  las*,  spell  of  despair, 
While  a  peal  as  of  victory  swells  on  the  air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  River. 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange  echoings  spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  seemed  stirred  in  their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from  the  dead, — 
Ay  !  press  on  to  the  River. 


312 


THE    OLD  R1FLKMAN. 


On  !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hills, 
On  !  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills, 
And   the   one   heart    of   thousands    grows    buoyant,   and 
thrills, 

As  they  pause  by  the  River. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and  worn, 
At  that  sight,  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on  the  Foeinan  full  statured  in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  River. 

And  Potomac  flowed  calm,  scarcely  heaving  her  breast, 
With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in  the  west, 
For  the  hand  of  the  Lord  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  River. 

Passed !  passed  !  the  glad  thousands  march  safe  through 

the  tide. 

(Hark,  Despot !  and  hear  the  wild  knell  of  your  pride, 
Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from  the  side 
Of  the  calm-flowing  River.) 

'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  Tyrant  shall  fall : 
Vain  !  vain  !  to  his  God  swells  a  desolate  call, 
For  his  grave  has  been  hollowed,  and  woven  his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  River. 


THE  OLD  RIFLEMAN. 

BY   FRANK   TICKXOR,    M.    D. 

Now,  bring  me  out  my  buckskin  suit ! 

My  pouch  and  powder,  too ! 
We  '11  see  if  seventy -six  can  shoot 

As  sixteen  used  to  do. 


THE  OLD  RIFLEMAN.  313 

Old  Bess  !  we  've  kept  our  barrels  bright ! 

Our  triggers  quick  and  true ! 
As  far,  if  not  as  fine  a  sight, 

As  long  ago  we  drew  ! 

And  pick  me  out  a  trusty  flint ! 

A  real  white  and  blue ; 
Perhaps  't  will  win  the  other  tint 

Before  the  hunt  is  through ! 

Give  boys  your  brass  percussion-caps ! 

Old  "  shut-pan  "  suits  as  well  ! 
There  's  something  in  the  sparks  :  perhaps 

There  's  something  in  the  smell ! 

We  've  seen  the  red-coat  Briton  bleed  ! 

The  red-skin  Indian  too  ! 
We  never  thought  to  draw  a  bead 

On  Yankee-doodle-doo ! 

But,  Bessie  !  bless  your  dear  old  heart ! 

Those  days  are  mostly  done  ; 
And  now  we  must  revive  the  art 

Of  shooting  on  the  run  ! 

If  Doodle  must  be  meddling,  why, 

There  's  only  this  to  do,  — 
Select  the  black  spot  in  his  eye 

And  let  the  daylight  through ! 

And  if  he  does  n't  like  the  way 

That  Bess  presents  the  view, 
He  '11,  maybe,  change  his  mind  and  stay 

Where  the  good  Doodles  do ! 

Where  Lincoln  lives.      The  man,  you  know, 
Who  kissed  the  Testament  ; 


314  "SOUTHRONS." 

To  keep  the  Constitution  ?     No  ! 
To  keep  the  Government ! 

We  '11  hunt  for  Lincoln,  Bess !  old  tool, 
And  take  him  half  and  half; 

We  '11  aim  to  hit  him,  if  a  fool, 
And  7ni$s  him,  if  a  calf! 

We  '11  teach  these  shot-gun  boys  the  tricks 

By  which  a  war  is  won  ; 
Especially  how  seventy-six 

Took  Tories  on  the  run. 


"  SOUTHRONS." 

You  can  never  win  them  back  — • 

Never !  never ! 
Though  they  perish  on  the  track 

Of  your  endeavor ; 
Though  their  corses  strew  the  earth 
That  SMILED  upon  their  birth, 
And  blood  pollutes  each  hearth- 
Stone  forever  ! 

They  have  risen  to  a  man, 
Stern  and  fearless  ; 
Of  your  curses  and  your  ban 

They  are  careless. 
Every  hand  is  on  its  knife, 
Every  gun  is  primed  for  strife, 
Every  PALM  contains  a  life, 
High  and  peerless ! 

You  have  no  such  blood  as  theirs 
For  the  shedding  : 


THE   GUERILLAS.  315 

In  the  veins  of  Cavaliers 

Was  its  heading  ! 
You  have  no  such  stately  men 
In  your  "  abolition  den," 
To  march  through  foe  and  fen, 

Nothing  dreading ! 

They  may  fall  before  the  fire 

Of  your  legions, 
Paid  with  gold  for  murderous  hire,  — 

Bought  allegiance  ; 
But  for  every  drop  you  shed 
You  shall  have  a  mound  of  dead, 
So  that  vultures  may  be  fed 
In  our  regions ! 

But  the  battle  to  the  strong 

Is  not  given, 
When  the  Judge  of  Right  and  Wrong 

Sits  in  heaven  ; 
And  the  God  of  David  still 
Guides  the  pebble  with  His  will,  — 
There  are  giants  yet  to  kill,  — 

Wrongs  unshriven  ! 


THE  GUERILLAS.* 

AWAKE  and  to  horse,  my  brothel's ! 

For  the  dawn  is  glimmering  gray ; 
And  hark !  in  the  crackling  brushwood 

There  are  feet  that  tread  this  way. 

*  These  stirring  verses,  which  we  .copy  from  a  Southern  ex 
change,  are  from  the  patriotic  pen  of  a  lady  of  Kentucky,  who  has 
achieved  a  national  reputation  as  a  poetess  and  authoress.  — Louis 
ville  Courier. 


316  THE  GUERILLAS. 

"  Who  cometh  ?  "     "A  friend."     "  What  tidings  ?  " 

"  O  God  !  I  sicken  to  tell ; 
For  the  earth  seems  earth  no  longer, 

And  its  sights  are  sights  of  hell  ! 

"  From  the  far-off'  conquered  cities 

Comes  a  voice  of  stifled  wail, 
And  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  the  houseless 

Ring  out,  like  a  dirge  on  the  gale. 

"  I  've  seen  from  the  smoking  village 

Our  mothers  and  daughters  fly  ; 
I  've  seen  where  the  little  children 

Sank  down  in  the  furrows  to  die. 

"  On  the  banks  of  the  battle-stained  river 

I  stood  as  the  moonlight  shone, 
And  it  glared  on  the  face  of  my  brother, 

As  the  sad  wave  swept  him  on. 

"  Where  my  home  was  glad,  are  ashes, 
And  horrors  and  shame  had  been  there, 

For  I  found  on  the  fallen  lintel 
This  tress  of  my  wife's  torn  hair. 

"  They  are  turning  the  slaves  upon  us  *, 

And,  with  more  than  the  fiend's  worst  art, 

Have  uncovered  the  fire  of  the  savage 
That  slept  in  his  untaught  heart !  * 

"  The  ties  to  our  hearths  that  bound  him 

They  have  rent  with  curses  away, 
And  maddened  him,  with  their  madness, 

To  be  almost  as  brutal  as  they. 

"  With  halter  and  torch  and  Bible, 

And  hymns  to  the  sound  of  the  drum, 

*  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  this  charge  is  unfounded. 


THE    GUERILLAS.  317 

They  preach  the  gospel  of  murder, 
And  pray  for  lust's  kingdom  to  come. 

"  To  saddle  !  to  saddle  !  my  brothers  ! 

Look  up  to  the  rising  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  God  who  shines  there 

Whether  deeds  like  these  shall  be  done ! 

"  Wherever  the  vandal  cometh, 

Press  home  to  his  heart  with  your  steel ; 

And  when  at  his  bosom  you  cannot, 

Like  the  serpent,  go  strike  at  his  heel ! 

"  Through  thicket  and  wood,  go  hunt  him  ; 

Creep  up  to  his  camp-fire  side ; 
And  let  ten  of  his  corpses  blacken 

Where  one  of  our  brothers  hath  died. 

"  In  his  fainting,  foot-sore  marches, 

In  his  flight  from  the  stricken  fray, 
In  the  snare  of  the  lonely  ambush, 

The  debts  we  owe  him  pay. 

"  In  God's  hand  alone  is  vengeance, 
But  he  strikes  with  the  hands  of  men  ; 

And  his  blight  would  wither  our  manhood, 
If  we  smite  not  the  smiter  again. 

"  By  the  graves  where  our  fathers  slumber, 
By  the  shrines  where  our  mothers  prayed, 

By  our  homes  and  hopes  and  freedom, 
Let  every  man  swear  on  his  blade, 

"  That  he  will  not  sheathe  nor  stay  it, 

Till  from  point  to  hilt  it  glow 
With  the  flush  of  Almighty  vengeance, 

In  the  blood  of  the  felon  foe." 


* 


318     THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET. 

They  swore :  and  the  answering  sunlight 
Leaped  red  from  their  lifted  swords ; 

And  the  hate  in  their  hearts  made  echo 
To  the  wrath  in  their  burning  words. 

There  's  weeping  in  all  New  England, 
And  by  Schuy Hull's  banks  a  knell ; 

And  the  widows  there  and  the  orphans 
How  the  oath  was  kept,  can  tell.* 


THERE  'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET ! 

BY   JAMES    R.    RANDALL. 

BY  the  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash 

The  tyrant's  war-shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbals'  fitful  clash, 

And  the  growl  of  his  sullen  drums. 
We  hear  it  !  we  heed  it  with  vengeful  thrills, 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget ; 
There  's  faith  in  the  streams,  there  's  hope  in  the  hills, 

There  's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

Minions  !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead  ; 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  scourged,  we  are  scarred ; 
We  crouch  —  't  is  to  welcome  the  triumph  tread 

Of  the  peerless  BEAU  REGARD. 
Then  woe  to  your  vile,  polluting  horde, 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met ; 
There  's  faith  in  the  victor's  stainless  sword, 

There  's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

*  It  may  add  something  to  the  interest  with  which  these  stirring 
lines  will  be  read,  to  know  that  they  were  composed  within  the 
\valls  of  a  Yankee  Bastile.  They  reach  us  in  manuscript,  through 
the  cotirtesv  of  a  returned  prisoner.  —  Richmond  Examiner. 


EPIGRAM.  3 1 9 

Bigots  !  ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind 

With  the  clank  of  an  iron  chain  ; 
The  spirit  of  Freedom  sings  in  the  wind, 

O'er  Merryman,  Thomas,  and  Kane  ; 
And  we,  though  we  smite  not,  are  not  thralls,  — 

Are  piling  a  gory  debt ; 
While  down  by  McHenry's  dungeon-walls 

There 's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away, 

And  they  scowl  on  your  brutal  bands, 
While  the  nimble  poinard  dares  the  day, 

In  their  dear  defiant  hands. 
They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows, 

Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set ; 
There  's  faith  in  their  unrelenting  woes, 

There  's  life  in  the  old  land  yet ! 

There  's  life,  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins,  — • 

'T  is  vocal  without  noise  ; 
It  gushed  o'er  Manassas's  solemn  plains, 

From  the  blood  of  the  MARYLAND  BOYS  ! 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud,  and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat ; 
By  the  death  of  the  brave,  by  the  God  in  the  skies, 

There  's  life  in  the  old  land  yet  ! 


EPIGRAM. 

WHILST  Butler  plays  his  silly  pranks, 
And  closes  up  New-Orleans'  banks, 
Our  Stonewall  Jackson,  with  more  cunning, 
Keeps  Yankee  Banks  forever  running. 

Charleston  Mercury. 


320  THINKING   OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 


THINKING  OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 

WE  were  sitting  around  the  table, 

Just  a  night  or  two  ago, 
In  the  little  cosy  parlor, 

With  the  lamp-light  burning  low  ; 
And  the  window-blinds  half  opened, 

For  the  summer  air  to  come, 
And  the  painted  curtains  moving 

Like  a  busy  pendulum. 

Oh  !  the  cushions  on  the  sofa, 

And  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 
And  the  gathering  of  comforts, 

In  the  old  familiar  hall ; 
And  the  wagging  of  the  pointer, 

Lounging  idly  by  the  door, 
And  the  flitting  of  the  shadows 

From  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 

Oh  !  they  wakened  in  my  spirit, 

Like  the  beautiful  in  art, 
Such  a  busy,  busy  thinking,  — 

Such  a  dreaminess  of  heart,  — 
That  I  sat  among  the  shadows, 

With  my  spirit  all  astray ; 
Thinking  only  —  thinking  only 

Of  the  soldiers  far  away  : 

Of  the  tents  beneath  the  moonlight, 

Of  the  stirring  tattoo's  sound, 
Of  the  soldier  in  his  blanket,  — 

In  his  blanket  on  the  ground ; 
Of  the  icy  winter  coming, 

Of  the  cold,  bleak  winds  that  blow, 
And  the  soldier  in  his  blanket, 

In  his  blanket  on  the  snow. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S   WAY."        321 

Of  the  blight  upon  the  heather, 

And  the  frost  upon  the  hill, 
And  the  whistling,  whistling  ever, 

And  the  never,  never  still ; 
Of  the  little  leaflets  falling, 

With  the  sweetest,  saddest  sound,  — • 
And  the  soldier  —  oh  !  the  soldier, 

In  his  blanket  on  the  ground. 

Thus  I  lingered  in  my  dreaming,  — 

In  my  dreaming  far  away.  — 
Till  the  spirit's  picture-painting 

Seemed  as  vivid  as  the  day ; 
And  the  moonlight  faded  softly 

From  the  window  opened  wide, 
And  the  faithful,  faithful  pointer 

Nestled  closer  by  my  side. 

And  I  knew  that  'neath  the  starlight, 

Though  the  chilly  frosts  may  fall, 
That  the  soldier  will  be  dreaming, 

Dreaming  often  of  us  all. 
So  I  gave  my  spirit's  painting 

Just  the  breathing  of  a  sound, 
For  the  dreaming,  dreaming  soldier, 

In  his  slumber  on  the  ground. 
November  24,  1861. 


"STONEWALL   JACKSON'S  WAY." 

COME,  stack  arms,  men  !  Pile  on  the  rail*, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ; 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We  '11  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
21 


322        "STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY." 

To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 
Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

We  see  him  now,  —  the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew  ; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile,  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue-Light  Elder  "  knows  'em  well ; 
Says  he,  "  That  's  Banks  —  he  's  fond  of  shell ; 
Lord  save  his  soul !  we  '11  give  him  ;  "  well, 

That 's  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence  !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all !  caps  off! 

Old  Blue-Light 's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention  !  it 's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God  : 
"  Lay  bare  Thine  arm  ;  stretch  forth  Thy  rod  ! 

Amen  !  "     That 's  "  Stonewall's  way." 

He  's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in  ! 

Steady  !  the  whole  brigade ! 
Hill 's  at  the  ford,  cut  off;  we  '11  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade ! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
"  Quick-step !  we  're  with  him  before  dawn  !  " 

That 's  "  Stonewall  Jackson'    way," 

The  sun  's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning,  and  by  George  ! 
Here  's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before  ; 
"  Bay'nets  and  grape  !  "  near  Stonewall  roar  ; 
"  Charge,  Stuart  !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score  ! J> 

Is  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 


SONG   FOR   THE  IRISH  BRIGADE.      323 

Ah  !  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band  ! 
Ah !  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah  !  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on, 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

That  gets  in  "  Stonewall's  way." 


SONG  FOR  THE  IRISH  BRIGADE. 

BY    "  SHAMROCK  "    OF   THE   SUMPTER   UIFLES. 

NOT  now  for  the  songs  of  a  nation's  wrongs, 

Nor  the  groans  of  starving  labor  ; 
Let  the  rifle  ring  and  the  bullet  sing 

To  the  clash  of  the  flashing  sabre ! 
There  are  Irish  ranks  on  the  tented  banks 

Of  Columbia's  guarded  ocean, 
And  an  iron  clank,  from  flank  to  flank, 

Tells  of  armed  men  in  motion. 

And  the  frank  souls  there,  clear,  true,  and  bare 

To  all,  as  the  steel  beside  them. 
Can  love  or  hate,  with  the  strength  of  Fate, 

Till  the  grave  of  the  valiant  hide  them, 
Each  seems  to  be  mailed  Ard  Righ, 

Whose  sword's  avenging  glory 
Might  light  the  fight  and  smite  for  Right, 

Like  Brian's  in  olden  story ! 

With  pale  affright  and  panic  flight 

Shall  dastard  Yankees,  base  and  hollow, 

Hear  a  Celtic  race,  from  their  battle-place, 
Charge  to  the  shout  of  "  Faugh-a-ballayh  !  " 


324        SONG  FOR   THE   IRISH  BRIGADE. 

By  the  souls  above,  by  the  land  we  love, 

Her  tears  and  bleeding  patience, 
The  sledge  is  wrought  that  shall  smash  to  naught 

The  brazen  liar  of  nations. 

The  Irish  green  shall  again  be  seen 

As  our  Irish  fathers  bore  it,  — 
A  burning  wind  from  the  South  behind, 

And  the  Yankee  rout  before  it !  — 
O'Neil's  red  hand  shall  purge  the  land,  — • 

Rain  fire  on  men  and  cattle,  — 
Till  the  Lincoln  snakes  in  their  own  cold  lakes 

Plunge  from  the  blaze  of  battle. 

The  knaves  that  rest  on  Columbia's  breast, 

And  the  voice  of  true  men  stifle, 
We  '11  exorcise  from  the  rescued  prize,  — 

Our  talisman,  the  rifle ; 
For  a  tyrant's  life  a  bowie-knife ! 

Of  Union-knot  dissolvers, 
The  best  we  ken  are  stalworth  men, 

Columbiads  and  revolvers  ! 

Whoe'er  shall  march  by  triumphal  arch, 

Whoe'er  may  swell  the  slaughter, 
Our  drums  shall  roll  from  the  Capitol 

O'er  Potomac's  fateful  water ! 
Rise,  bleeding  ghosts,  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

For  j  udgment  final  and  solemn  ; 
Your  fanatic  horde  to  the  edge  of  the  sword 

Is  doomed,  —  line,  square,  and  column. 


THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG.  325 


THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG. 

I. 

TAKE  that  banner  down,  't  is  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary  ; 
Furl  it,  fold  it,  let  it  rest ; 
For  there  's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
For  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
In  the  blood  that  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it : 
Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest. 

ii. 

Take  that  banner  down,  't  is  tattered,  — 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh,  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ! 
Hard  to  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it ; 
Hard,  for  those  who  once  unrolled  it, 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

in. 

Furl  that  banner,  furl  it  sadly ; 
Once  six  millions  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever  ; 
And  that  flag  should  float  forever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave. 

IV. 

Furl  it,  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 
Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 


326  THE   CONFEDERATE  FLAG. 

And  that  banner,  it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 


v. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it,  — 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ; 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ; 
Pardon  those  who  trail  and  tore  it : 
Oh,  how  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so ! 

VI. 

Furl  that  banner  !      True,  't  is  gory  ; 
But  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust ; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages : 
Furl  its  folds,  for  now  we  must. 

VII. 

Furl  that  banner  softly,  slowly ; 
Furl  it  gently,  —  it  is  holy,  — 
For  it  droops  above  the  dead  : 
Touch  it  not,  —  unfurl  it  never, — 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 

New  York  Freeman's  Jcurnal. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


ALDRICH,  T.  B.,  166. 

ANONYMOUS,  2,  17,  27,  30,  43,  52,  55,  58,  65,  66,  69,  81,  91,  108, 
115,  119,  127,  132,  138,  153,  157,  158,  16.0,  167,  169,  176,  177, 
179,  180,  183,  193,  198,  204,  207,  208,  211,  217,  218,  220,  222, 
2-25,  228,  254,  255,  257,  258,  265,  265,  270,  274,  282,  296,  297, 
299,  304,  306,  308,  314,  315,  319,  320,  321,  325. 

ANDIIISON,  ALFRED,  262. 

BARNEY,  93. 

BEDLOW,  H.,  194. 

BETHUNE,  REV.  G.  W.,  4. 

BOKEK,  GEORGE  H.,  33,  84,  114, 161,  209,  210,  214. 

BOLTON,  SARAH  T.,  149. 

BRADBURY,  WILLIAM  B.,  90. 

BROWNELL,  H.  H.,  79,  96,  98, 121,  232 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN,  11,  268. 

BURLEIGH,  GEORGE  S.,  128. 

BUTLER,  CLARENCE.  7. 

CAREY,  ALICE,  273. 
CAROLINE,  289. 
CASTEN,  J.  CROSS,  215. 
CHILD,  F.  J.,  76. 
CUTLER,  E.  JEFFERSON,  97. 

DE  FOREST,  J.  W.,  151. 

DE  G.,  301. 

DUGANNE,  A.  J.  H.,  125. 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO,  139. 
E  PLURIBUS  UNUM,  174. 


328  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

FIELDS,  JAMES  T.,  20. 

GAGE,  FRANCES  D.,  186. 
GEORGIA,  291. 
GERMAN,  155. 
GLYNDON,  HOWARD,  163. 
GRIMES,  CHARITY",  117, 164, 182. 

HALPIN,  CHARLES  G.,  190,  213. 

HAYNE,  PAUL  H.,  310. 

HAYS,  WILL  S.,  144. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL,  1,  19. 

HOWE,  JULIA  WAKD,  68. 

JONATHAN  ,  72. 

J.  R.  M.,  188. 

KEMBLE,  FANNY,  263. 

LANDER,  BRIG.-GENERAL,  64,  118. 
LARCOM,  LUCY,  25. 
LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W.,  83. 
LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL,  20,  49. 
LOWELL,  ROBERT,  9,  112. 

NICHOL,  JOHN,  268. 

O'BRIEN,  FITZJAMES,  14. 
OLE  SECESH,  294. 

PIERPONT,  REV.  JOHN,  71. 

RANDOLPH,  A.  D.  F.,  187. 

RANDALL,  JAMES  R.,  318. 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN,  210,  251. 

REALF,  RICHARD,  283. 

REQUIER,  302. 

SHAMROCK,  323. 

SHANLY,  CHARLES  DAWSON,  46. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  329 

SIGMA,  62. 

SOLDIER,  261. 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  C.,  134,  142,  185,  267. 

STODDART,  RICHARD  HENRY,  275. 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD,  249. 
TICKNOR,  FRANK,  312. 

WALLACE,  WILLIAM  Ross,  13. 

WEBB,  C.  IT.,  23. 

WHITNEY,  MRS..  192. 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GKEENLEAF,  53,  60,  130,  146, 171. 

WINTER,  WILLIAM,  253. 

WOODMAN,  HORATIO,  5. 

W.  F.  W.,  136. 
A.  M.  W.,  259. 
R.  G.  W.,  57,  75. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PAGE 

Ah  me !  I  've  had  enough  of  thee 138 

All  blessings  walk  with  onward  feet 128 

All  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the  startled  valley 

swept 228 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  the}r  say 119 

An  end  at  last !     The  echoes  of  the  war 268 

As  Moses  stood  upon  the  flaming  hill 214 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  svamp 79 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay 83 

At  Nashville's  fall " 193 

Awake  and  to  horse,  my  brothers 315 

Ay,  deem  us  proud !  for  we  are  more 04 

Back  from  the  trebly  crimson  field 134 

Beneath  the  vast  and  vaulted  dome 274 

Behold  her  now  with  restless  flashing  eyes 282 

Blood,  blood !  the  lines  of  every  printed  sheet 209 

By  the  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash 318 

Come,  stack  arms,  men.     Pile  on  the  rails 321 

Cotton  and  corn  were  mighty  kings    2G5 

Dearest  love,  do  you  remember 211 

De  Lord  he  make  us  free  indeed 265 

Down  in  a  small  Palmetto  State  the  curious  ones  may  find  ...     17 
Do  you  know  of  the  dreary  land 98 

Eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two 136 

Farewell !  we  must  part;  we  have  turned  from  the  land 289 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  331 

PAGE 

Far  away  in  the  piny  woods 188 

Fibre  by  fibre,  shred  by  shred 180 

"  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do !  " 267 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards 306 

Fling  wide  the  dauntless  banner 302 

God  bless  United  States,  each  one 72 

God  of  the  Free !  upon  Thy  breath 2 

God  of  the  Free  !  upon  Thy  breath 13 

God's  blessing  be  upon 4 

God  save  me,  great  John  Bull ! 57 

Ha !  Bully  for  me  again,  when  my  turn  for  picket  is  over  ....  46 

Here  they  come  —  't  is  the  Twelfth,  you  know 121 

He  journeyed  all  creation  through 30 

Ho !  sons  of  the  Puritan  !  sons  of  the  Roundhead 27 

I  am  a  gay  Konservativ 164 

I  come  from  old  Manassas,  with  a  pocket  full  of  fun 297 

guess  I  mean  to  tax  myself 257 

hearkened  to  the  thund'ring  noise 91 

know  how,  through  the  golden  hours 192 

"m  shtanding  in  the  mud,  Biddy 93 

'11  tell  you  what  I  heard  that  day 33 

Individual  several,  indisintegrative  whole ! 75 

In  the  City  of  the  Crescent,  by  red  Mississippi's  waves 108 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John    49 

It  was  a  sturdy  engineer 174 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave 66 

John  Bull  vos  a-valkin'  his  parlor  von  day 55 

John  Bull,  esquire,  my  jo  John 52 

Lay  down  the  axe,  fling  by  the  spade 11 

Like  a  furnace  of  fire  blazed  the  midsummer-sun 158 

Look  how  the  hoofs  and  wheels  to-day 132 

Lord  Lovell  he  sat  in  St.  Charles'  Hotel   115 

Lord,  the  people  of  the  land 161 

Midst  tangled  roots  that  lined  the  wild  ravine 176 


332  INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Mine  eves  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coining  of  the  Lord G8 

Mouth  not  to  me  your  Union  rant 125 

My  song  is  of  a  fast  young  man  whose  name  was  Billy  Wires.  215 

No  glittering  chaplet  brought  from  other  lands 273 

Not  as  when  some  great  captain  falls 275 

Not  ever  in  all  human  time 283 

Not  now  for  the  songs  of  a  nation's  wrongs 323 

Not  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 255 

Now  bring  me  out  my  buckskin  suit ! 312 

Now  the  twilight  shadows  flit 97 

Och !  't  is  nate  to  be  captain  or  colonel 166 

Och  !  we  're  the  boys 14 

Of  General  Lee,  the  Rebel  Chief,  you  all  perhaps  do  know. . . .  160 

Oh !  craven,  craven !  while  my  brothers  fall 210 

Oh  pale,  pale  face !  Oh  helpless  hands !   183 

Oh !  up  in  the  morning,  up  in  the  morning 112 

O  Keeper  of  the  Sacred  Key 204 

Old  Shoddy  sits  in  his  easy-chair 179 

O  Lord  of  Hosts !  Almighty  King 19 

Old  John  Brown  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave 96 

0  Mammy,  have  you  heard  the  news 308 

O  my  darling !  my  darling !  never  to  feel 163 

Once  on  New  England's  bloody  heights 118 

On  that  mighty  day  of  battle,  'mid  the  booming  and  the  rattle  262 

O,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare 268 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air 185 

Our  past  is  bright  and  grand 69 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 220 

Peace  in  the  clover-scented  air 225 

Pile  on  the  rails !  Come,  comrades  all 218 

Rally  round  the  flag,  boys 20 

Resolved  —  This  nation's  goin'  tu  reuin 182 

Roll  not  a  drum,  sound  not  a  clarion  note 263 

Satan  was  chained  a  thousand  years 62 

Say,  darkies,  hab  you  seen  de  massa 254 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  333 

PAGE 

Seward,  qui  est  re  rum  cantor 65 

She  has  gone  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and  pride 1 

Sons  of  New  England  in  the  fray 142 

"  Stand  to  your  guns,  men !  "  Morris  cried 84 

Still  first,  as  long  and  long  ago 0 

Straight  to  his  heart  the  bullet  crushed 7 

Take  that  banner  down,  't  is  weary 325 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard 253 

The  army  is  gathering  from  near  and  from  far 90 

The  august  name  Auguste 258 

The  black  clouds  were  angrily  chasing  each  other 144 

The  Carrier  cannot  sing  to-day  the  ballads 198 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore 292 

The  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly 130 

The  harp  of  the  minstrel  with  melody  rings 71 

The  king  will  take  the  queen 207 

The  light  of  the  stars  shook  through  the  trees 58 

The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 210 

The  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 167 

The  ripe  red  berries  of  the  wintergreen 155 

The  spring  time  came,  but  not  with  mirth 23 

The  story  runs  that  to  a  certain  town 259 

The  tent  lights  glimmer  on  the  land 146 

The  tide  comes  up.  and  the  tide  goes  down 186 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 139 

Their  lips  are  still  as  the  lips  of  the  dead 261 

There  was  glorious  news,  for  our  armies  were  victorious 157 

They  slept  on  the  fields  which  their  valor  had  won 310 

Three  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed 2-'>2 

Three  years  ago  to-day 213 

Under  the  apple-tree  blossoms  in  May 169 

Up  from  the  ground  at  break  of  day 217 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn 171 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day 251 

We  are   coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thousand 

more 127 

We  have  heard  the  rebel  yell  . .  .190 


334  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PACK 

Well,  be  it  so !     The  not  uncommon  fate 187 

"  Well,  Uncle  Sam,'1  says  Jefferson  D., 76 

We  're  free  from  Yankee  despots 301 

We  wait  beneath  the  furnace  blast 60 

We  were  sitting  round  the  table 320 

What  are  you  waiting  for,  George,  I  pray  ?  81 

What,  hoist  the  white  flag  when  our  triumph  is  nigh? 249 

What  is  the  threat  ?     "  Leave  her  out  in  the  cold !  " 25 

What,  was  it  a  dream  ?  am  I  all  alone 1 49 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's 

aching  breast 20 

When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again 208 

When  Old  Virginia  took  the  field 304 

When  Robin,  Swallow,  Thrush,  and  Wren 153 

AVhilst  Butler  plays  his  silly  pranks 319 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  dauntless  Varuna 114 

Whoop !  the  Doodles  have  broken  loose 291 

Why  flashed  that  flag  on  Monday  morn 5 

With  a  beard  that  was  filthy  and  red 294 

With  measured  tread  along  his  lonely  beat 177 

Within  a  green  and  shadowy  wood 222 

Without  a  hillock  stretched  the  plain 151 

Yankee  Doodle  had  a  mind 299 

Yankee  Doodle  went  to  war 43 

Yes,  call  them  Rebels !  't  is  the  name 290 

You  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave 53 

You,  forsooth,  and  valor  brothers ! 194 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier 270 

You  can  never  win  them  back 314 

You  offer  us  ten  thousand  fur  the  hed  ov  Butler,  do  ye 117 


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224130 


